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OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


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From  the  Library  of 

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DREAMTHORP 


Drawn  by  Scott  Rankin  yV^w/  a  photograph  by  Mr.  John  Moffat, 

r/  Edinburgh,  specially  printed  for  this  book  from  an 

early  negative. 


DREAMTHORP 

/ 
A   BOOK   OF  ESSAYS  WRITTEN 
IN  THE   COUNTRY 


BY 

ALEXANDER    SMITH 


'8fcJ 


WITH  A   BIOGRAPHICAL  AND  CRITICAL 
INTRODUCTION 

BY 

JOHN   HOGBEN 


MITCHELL  KENNERLEY 

NEW  YORK 

1907 


Stack        ^ 

Annex 

SH5dL 


CONTENTS 

INTRODUCTION 
I.  DREAMTHORP 
11.  ON  THE  WRITING  OF  ESSAYS 

III.  ON   DEATH   AND   THE   FEAR  OF   DYING 

IV.  WILLIAM   DUNBAR     . 
V.   A  lark's   FLIGHT      . 

VI.   CHRISTMAS    .... 
VII.   MEN   OF   LETTERS      . 
VIII.    ON    THE     IMPORTANCE     OF     A     MAN    TO 
HIMSELF     .... 
IX.   A  SHELF   IN  MY   BOOKCASE 

X.  GEOFFREY  CHAUCER 

XI.  BOOKS  AND  GARDENS 
XII.   ON   VAGABONDS 


VI  t 

I 

20 

44 

63 

89 

108 

13c 

159 
178 
200 
234 
25: 


L 


INTRODUCTION. 

ET   no   poet,"   writes    Jean    Paul,    "suffer 


metropolis,  but  if  possible,  in  a  hamlet,  at  the 
highest,  a  village."  No  pause  need  be  made  here 
to  inquire  how  many  poets,  great  and  small,  have 
first  seen  the  sunlight  in  a  metropolis.  Certainly 
their  name  is  legion.  Be  the  real  benefit  of  locality 
what  it  may,  the  choice  lies  not  with  mortal 
men. 

On  the  last  day  of  the   year  1829,^  Alexander 

*  It  may  seem  a  bold  thing  to  set  down  1829  in  face  of 
the  authorities  that  give  1830  (or,  more  specifically,  31st 
December  1830)  as  the  year  of  Alexander  Smith's  birth,  but 
it  is  deliberately  done.  The  Encyclopedia  Britannica ; 
Chambers's  Encyclopedia  ;  Chambers' s  Cyclopedia  of  English 
Literature;  Dictionary  of  National  Biography ;  Irving's 
Biographical  Dictionary  of  Eminent  Scotsmen ;  General 
Grant  Wilson's  Poets  and  Poetry  of  Scotland ;  Allibone's 
Dictionary  of  English  Literature  ;  Men  of  the  Time  (1866) ; 
Archibald  McKay's  History  of  Kilmarnock,  all  state  the  year 
as  1830.  It  is  true  the  array  is  imposing  and  formidable  ; 
yet  when  one  comes  with  open  mind  to  search  for  adequate 
reasons,  there  is  nothing  forthcoming  to  justify  the  conclusion. 
The  question  was  raised  in  that  extremely  useful,  but  long- 
suffering  publication,  known  as  Notes  and  Qtteries  (8th 
series,  xii.,  7,  57,  118,  174,  311)  without  result,  although 
one  writer  makes  the  extraordinary  statement  that  Alexander 


viii  INTRODUCTION 

Smith  was  born  at  Kilmarnock — not  a  metropolis, 
exactly,  but  something  much  more  than  the  village 

Smith  was  born  at  a  certain  manse  on  another  date  altogether. 
When  the  Registration  Act  for  Scotland,  of  7th  August  1854, 
was  passed,  all  Parochial  Registers  found  their  way  to  the 
General  Registry  Ofi5ce,  Edinburgh,  where,  after  making 
careful  search,  I  have  failed  to  find  any  record  of  the  birth — 
probably  owing  to  Smith's  parents  being  Dissenters.  Under 
such  circumstances  one  must  fall  back  on  what  other  evidence 
there  may  be.  Beginning  with  the  History  of  Kilmarnock — 
which  appears  to  have  been  blindly  followed  as  an  authority — 
the  entry  runs  thus :  "Alexander  Smith  was  born  31st  December 
1830 — according  to  Alexander  Nicolson  in  Good  Words, 
1829."  It  will  be  observed  that  McKay  does  not  feel  equal 
to  debating  the  point  with  Sheriff  Nicolson,  who,  like  Rev. 
T.  Brisbane  and  Pat.  P.  Alexander,  was  exceedingly 
intimate  with  Smith.  All  three  give  the  year  as  1829. 
McKay's  date,  it  may  further  be  noted,  was  directly 
challenged  in  an  article,  in  the  Kilmarnock  Standard  of 
26th  March  1881,  written  by  Mr.  Allan  Andrew,  who  still 
survives,  and  who  knew  not  only  Alexander  Smith  but  his 
parents  as  well.  For  the  defence  it  may  also  be  mentioned 
that  the  Catalogue  of  the  Advocate's  Library — a  carefully 
kept  record — gives  1829.  Moreover  the  grave-stone  in 
Warriston  sets  forth  1829  as  the  year  of  birth.  It  is  hardly 
conceivable  that  here,  at  all  events,  an  error  should  be  made, 
for  both  of  Smith's  parents  survived  him.  One  can,  indeed, 
understand  that  a  man,  said  to  have  been  born  on  the  last 
day  of  a  year,  might  be  described  as  having  opened  his  eyes 
on  the  world  after  midnight,  and  thus  have  his  real  birthday 
on  the  first  day  of  a  year.  Probably  this  view  explains  much, 
and  I  am  confirmed  in  it  by  a  communication,  for  which  I  am 
indebted  to  the  only  one  of  Alexander  Smith's  surviving 
children  resident  in  this  country.  My  informant  writes : 
"  I  remember  my  brother  telling  me  that  there  was  a  doubt 
as  to  whether  it  was  in  the  last  hour  of  1829  or  the  first  hour 
of  1830  that  he  was  born.  My  brother  used  to  see  a  great 
deal  of  Alexander  Smith's  mother,  so  would  have  received 


INTRODUCTION  ix 

which  marked  Richter's  limit.  In  "  A  Boy's  Poem  " 
Smith  refers  to  the  old  year  bringing  him — a  gift — 
in  its  dying  arms.  His  father  was  engaged  in  lace 
pattern-designing.  His  mother — Helen  Murray  by 
name — is  described  as  of  good  Highland  lineage. 
While  Alexander,  the  eldest  born,  was  but  a  child, 
the  family  removed  to  Paisley,  and  thence,  after  a 
short  time,  to  Glasgow.  Particulars  of  the  boyhood 
and  youth  of  the  subject  of  this  sketch  may  be 
found  in  the  volume  entitled  The  Early  Years  of 
Alexander  Smith,  Poet  and  Essayist,  by  the 
Rev.  T.  Brisbane,  published  in  1869.  The  book 
consists  mainly  of  reminiscences  of  ten  years' 
intimate  friendship,  and  throws  an  interesting  light 
on  the  days  when  Smith  was  practically  unknown. 
The  other  chief  source  of  information  regarding 
the  singularly  quiet  and  unobtrusive  life  of  the 
poet  is,  of  course,  the  Memoir,  written  by  his  friend 
Patrick  Proctor  Alexander  in  1869,  and  prefixed 
to  the  volume  of  Essays  known  as  Last  Leaves. 

Smith  had  some  thought  of  choosing  the  pulpit  as 
his  sphere  in  life,  but  this  was  soon  abandoned,  and 
the  boy  was  sent  to  follow  his  father  as  a  designer. 
It  is  said  that  in  after  years  he  was  never  known  to 
lift  a  pencil.  Very  likely.  Yet  it  is  quite  possible 
that  the  early  training  which  required  a  delicate 
gift  for  lines  and  curves,  had  something  to  do  with 
that  characteristic  filigree  work  of  his  fancy,  so 
plentifully  shown   in   both   his   prose   and   verse. 

the  infonnation  from  her."  There  is  nothing  in  this, 
however,  to  warrant  any  one  setting  down  31st  December 
1830  as  the  date  of  birth,  and  the  matter  may  surely  now  be 
allowed  to  rest  as  stated  above. 


X  INTRODUCTION 

Some  subtle  connection  may  have  bound  the  two 
things  together.  The  Glasgow  Citizen  was  in  those 
days  edited  by  James  Hedderwick — himself  a  poet 
— and  before  long  Smith's  verses  began  to  appear 
in  it  above  the  name  of  "  Smith  Murray."  How 
many  men  of  literary  tastes,  I  wonder,  who  are 
over  middle  age,  find  themselves  responding 
warmly  to  the  very  mention  of  the  Citizen.  It 
is,  however,  to  the  Weekly  Citizen  that  reference  is 
made.  It  cost  but  a  halfpenny,  and  it  was  issued 
every  Friday  night — a  thin  little  paper  not  over- 
well  printed  but  packed  full  of  good  things.  There 
were  copious  extracts  from  the  best  books,  and 
much  of  the  verse  that  appeared  in  it  was  carefully 
chosen  from  the  higher  class  journals  with,  of 
course,  due  acknowledgment.  One  felt  the 
unmistakable  presence  of  a  hand  that  knew  its 
way.  Long  before  papers  of  the  snippety  order 
came  into  vogue,  this  modest  literary  journal  reigned 
supreme  in  many  quarters,  as  week  by  week  it 
came  forth  filled  with  things  rich  and  rare,  readable 
from  start  to  finish.  It  had  a  circulation,  too,  that 
travelled  far  beyond  Glasgow.  The  paper  still 
survives,  but  it  now  costs  a  penny  and  much  of  its 
charm  has  fled. 

It  was  in  1851  that  Alexander  Smith  ventured 
to  forward  some  specimens  of  his  verse,  in 
manuscript,  to  the  Rev.  George  Gilfillan,  of 
Dundee — who  was  himself  in  degree  a  "  spasmodic  " 
poet,  as  anyone  may  see  who  labours  through  the 
nine  books  that  make  up  his  Night.  At  that 
time  GilfiUan's  was  a  name  to  conjure  with.  It 
was  not,  it  is  true,  a  name  that  stood  for  "safe" 


INTRODUCTION  xl 

theology,  but  it  was  certainly  one  that  was  honour- 
ably associated  with  generous,  eloquent,  and 
outspoken  criticism  of  men  and  books.  The 
critic  did  not  take  long  to  find  room  for  ardent 
praise,  and  through  his  influence  poems  by  Smith 
began  to  show  themselves  with  a  certain  regularity 
in  the  Critic  and  the  Eclectic  Review.  George 
Henry  Lewes  at  once  became  interested  in  the 
new  voice,  and  made  use  of  his  considerable 
influence,  as  editor  of  the  Leader  newspaper,  to 
further  Smith's  claims  to  a  wider  reputation.  In 
this  he  was  helped  by  Herbert  Spencer  and 
Arthur  (later  Sir  Arthur)  Helps.  It  was  Gilfillan 
himself,  however,  who  did  most  to  introduce  the 
poet  to  the  public,  and  he  was  well  entitled  to  the 
claim  of  having  "  something  of  a  paternal  interest 
in  Alexander  Smith."  "  Ever  since,"  writes 
Gilfillan,  "the  straggling,  scratching  MS.,  along 
with  its  accompanying  letter,  reached  our  still 
study,  we  have  loved  the  author  of  A  Life  Drama, 
and  all  the  more  since  we  met  him  in  his  quiet  yet 
distinct,  modest  yet  manly  personality."  We  see 
that  instead  of  being  at  that  time,  as  the  nature  of 
his  verse  might  perhaps  suggest,  a  young  man  of 
exuberant  self-importance,  he  was  precisely  the 
reverse.  He  is  described  by  one  of  his  friends  as 
having  been  "  one  of  the  most  simple,  quiet,  modest 
and  unassuming  of  men "  ;  and  another  writes : 
"The  most  remarkable  thing  about  him  was  his 
wonderful  quietness  of  demeanour.  There  was 
never  a  quieter  man."  These  are  descriptions 
that,  so  far  as  may  be  gathered  from  all  reliable 
accounts,  remained  true  of  him  up  to  the  very  last. 


xii  INTRODUCTION 

He  seems  to  have  been  one  possessed  of  that  rare 
thing,  "  a  considerable  talent  for  silence,"  though, 
when  he  did  speak,  he  spoke  to  the  point.  His 
outward  appearance  has  been  described  by  one 
who  knew  him  well,  in  these  words :  "  What  at 
first  meeting  struck  me  as  remarkable  about  him 
was  his  forehead,  which  really,  I  think,  was 
remarkable — a  fine  square  block  of  brain,  such  as 
I  have  seldom  seen  the  like  of,  with  dark  hair 
massed  heavily  over  it.  Otherwise — except  for 
something  of  a  squint,  a  little  startling  at  first,  but 
which  afterward  you  would  not  have  wished  away — 
his  face,  though  comely  and  expressive,  was  not 
such  as  to  strongly  arrest  attention.  Afterwards, 
as  the  years  dealt  with  him,  he  changed  somewhat 
in  appearance.  As  he  neared  middle  age,  face  and 
figure  became  fuller,  and  the  first,  as  the  fashion 
of  the  day  suggested,  was  improved  by  a  moustache 
and  an  ample  beard,  brown  in  colour,  and  of 
almost  exceptionally  fine  proportions."  Although 
he  changed  in  outward  aspect  as  time  passed,  the 
same  authority  was  able  to  write  :  "  In  himself  he 
changed  not  a  jot ;  remaining  throughout  and  to 
the  last  hour,  precisely  the  same  simple,  quiet, 
unassuming,  undemonstrative  man  who  met  me  on 
that  first  evening ;  without  a  suspicion  in  him  of 
anything  like  small  affectation ;  averse  in  his  own 
person  from  every  form  of  self-exhibition,  and  with 
a  humorous  and  kindly  contempt  for  that  variety 
as  it  showed  itself  in  others." 

About  this  time  (185 1)  Smith's  life  was  enriched 
by  friendship  with  Hugh  Macdonald,  a  man  who 
attained  considerable  fame  in  the  West  of  Scotland, 


INTRODUCTION  xiii 

mainly   through   his    two   books,   Rambles  round 
Glasgow  and    Days  at  the    Coast.      Macdonald 
began  life  in  a  factory,  and  blossomed  into  some- 
thing of  a  poet,  and  something  of  a  naturalist  as 
well.     Like    Burns — his    idol — he    was    great    in 
conversation,  and  there  can  be  no  doubt  that  his 
silent  friend  derived  much  benefit  from  his  talk. 
Under  James  Hedderwick's   guidance  and   help, 
Macdonald  became  a  journalist,  and,  finally,  sub- 
editor of  the    Glasgow   Citizen,    in  which   paper 
most    of    his    own    verse,     naturally,    appeared. 
Macdonald's  genuine  affection  for  Smith  did  not 
prevent  him  from  entertaining  a  great  contempt 
for  the  latter's  poetry.     He  is  reported  as  saying : 
"  It  may   be   poetry ;   I'm  no  sayin'  it  isna ;  the 
creetics  say  it's  poetry,  an'  nae  doot  they  suld  ken ; 
but  it's  no  my  kind  o'  poetry.     Jist  a  blatter  o' 
braw  words,  to  my  mind,  an'  bit  whirly-whas,  they 
ca'  eemages ! "     Such  a  tirade   against  himself — 
with,  you  will  observe,  a  modicum  of  truth  in  it — 
Smith   is   said    to  have   mightily   enjoyed.      But 
Macdonald  was  wont  to  deal  as  mercilessly  with 
greater   poets   than   Alexander  Smith.     All  were 
tried  by  his  touchstone  of  Burns,  and  Shakspere 
himself  suffered  under  the  ordeal.     According  to 
P.  P.   Alexander,  who  knew  both   men   so  well, 
three-fourths  of  what  Smith  knew  of  Nature,  in 
bird  and  flower,  was  taught  him  by  Macdonald. 
You  will  come  upon  this  boast  in  Dreamthorp : 
"I   am   acquainted  with  birds   and  the  building 
of   nests,   with  wild-flowers  and    the   seasons  in 
which  they  blow ! "     It  is  only  just  to  add   that 
the  author   of  Dreamthorp  never  forgot   his  in- 


xiv  INTRODUCTION 

debtedness,  and  long  afterwards  wrote  thus  of  his 
friend :  "  Mr.  Macdonald  was  a  man  of  genius,  a 
song-writer,  and  antiquary ;  a  devout  lover  of  beast 
and  bird,  of  snowdrop  and  lucken-gowan,  of  the 
sun  setting  on  Bothwell  Bank,  of  the  moon  shining 
down  on  Clydesdale  barley  fields.  He  was  in  his 
degree  one  of  those  poets  who  have,  since  Burns's 
time,  made  nearly  every  portion  of  Scotland  vocal. 
Just  as  Tannahill  has  made  Gleniffer  hills  greener 
by  his  songs,  as  Thom  of  Inverury  has  lent  a  new 
interest  to  the  banks  of  the  Dee,  as  Scott  Riddell 
has  added  a  note  to  the  Border  Minstrelsy,  has 
Mr.  Macdonald  taken  possession  of  the  country 
round  about  Glasgow."  A  more  intimate  note 
is  struck  in  the  following  words,  with  which 
Alexander  Smith  closes  his  reminiscences  of  his 
friend:  "Why  have  I  written  of  this  man  so? 
Because  it  was  my  fortune  to  come  into  more 
frequent  and  more  intimate  contact  with  him  than 
most.  .  .  .  Since  his  removal  there  are  perhaps 
some  half-dozen  persons  in  the  world  who  feel  that 
the  'strange  superfluous  glory  of  the  air'  lacks 
something,  and  that  because  an  eye  and  an  ear  are 
gone,  the  colour  of  the  flower  is  duller,  the  song 
of  the  bird  less  sweet,  than  in  a  time  they  can 
remember." 

The  hour  had  now  struck  for  a  wider  appeal^ 
and  A  Life  Drama  made  its  appearance  in 
1852 — being  launched,  by  Bogue  of  London,  on 
what  turned  out  to  be,  in  turn,  a  prosperous  and 
a  hazardous  voyage.  Its  effect  was  immediate. 
It  is  easy  for  us  now  to  use  the  scalpel — and 
indeed  it  was   easy  then.     For    the  most  part. 


INTRODUCTION  xv 

however,  there  followed  a  long  round  of  applause. 
The  poet's  youth  was  held  in  remembrance,  and 
as  a  first  work  it  was  considered  not  only  full  of 
promise  but  weighted  with  actual  accomplishment. 
Seldom  in  the  history  of  poetry  has  there  fallen 
upon  one  of  its  votaries  so  sudden,  so  complete  a 
success.  On  the  face  of  it,  A  Life  Drama  bore 
the  most  pronounced  signs  of  scrappiness.  It 
was,  in  fact,  a  brilliant  tangle  of  images  strung 
upon  a  thin,  and  not  always  clear  narrative.  The 
best  portions  were  obviously  the  gatherings  of 
years;  and  while,  separately,  they  had  much  to 
commend  them,  the  reading  of  the  Drama  as 
a  whole  emphasised  at  once  their  rounded,  gem- 
like qualities  and  their  want  of  relation  to  each 
other.  As  I  have  written  elsewhere  regarding 
Alexander  Smith :  "  In  Marvell's  words  he  seems 
to  roll  all  his  strength  and  sweetness  into  balls, 
with  which  he  literally  pelts  his  readers  as  at  a 
floral  fete." 

In  April  1853,  John  Forster  reviewed  A  Life 
Drama  in  the  Examiner,  —  Matthew  Arnold 
saying  at  the  time,  "  Alexander  Smith  has  certainly 
an  extraordinary  faculty,"  but  taking  the  precaution 
to  add,  "  I  think  he  is  a  phenomenon  of  a  very 
dubious  character."  Clough  expressed  himself 
favourably :  and  "  Shirley  "  (John  Skelton,  latterly 
Sir  John),  in  Fraset^s  Magazine,  frankly  advised 
Smith  to  resist  the  temptation  of  throwing  his 
work  into  the  form  of  drama,  for  which  he  had  no 
talent.  As  for  the  Westminster  Revieiv,  it  perhaps 
went  farthest  of  all — declaring  Smith  to  be  "a 
born  singer ;  a  man  of  genius ;  not  a  musical  echo 


xvi  INTRODUCTION 

of  other  singers."     "He  has   faults  enough,"  it 
went  on  to  say,  "  to  occupy  an  academy  of  critics ; 
.  .  .  but  the   faults  are   mainly  those  of  youth. 
No   such   first    publication    can   we    remember." 
Others  followed.     All  the  critics  were  at  one  in 
detecting  an  inordinate  desire  to  bring  to  birth, 
sometimes   all   too   painfully,   poetic   images,   big 
with  fancy.     In  an  autobiographical  touch,  indeed. 
Smith  confesses  that  his  chief  joy  was  "  to  draw 
images  from  everything."    The  habit  had  become 
a  gentle  tyranny  with  him.     Long  after  the  publica- 
tion of  A  Life  Drama  he  could  frankly  write: 
"  I  would  rather  be  the  discoverer  of  a  new  image 
than  the  discoverer  of  a  new  planet.     Fine  phrases 
I  value  more  than  bank-notes."     The  stars  literally 
ruled  over  him.     We  know  that  Byron  described 
the  stars  as  "the  poetry  of  heaven,"  but  Smith 
did  not  leave  them  there,  but  made  them  do  duty 
everywhere.     A     Life    Drama     scintillates    with 
stars.     Like  the  Alfred  Hagart  he  described  at  a 
later  date,   "wherever  he   looked  he  saw  a   star 
glittering."     I  picked  up  one  day  on  a  bookstall 
a  copy  of  A  Life  Drama,  and  found  that   some 
industrious  reader  had  marked  every  reference  to 
a  star  with  a  blue  ring  and  a  number.     I  cannot 
charge  my  memory  with  the  total,  nor  do  I  con- 
sider that  my  time  would  be  profitably  spent  in 
repeating  the  task,  but  I  fancy  the  references  ran 
into  three  figures.     But  for  all  that,  "  it  is  too  late 
a  week  "  to  fall  in  with  the  stupid  old  criticism  that 
phrases  are  all  he  has  to  show.     No  doubt  one 
feels,  as  Sebastian  puts  it,  that  "he's  winding  up 
the  watch  of  his  wit,"  and  that  "  by  and  by  it  will 


INTRODUCTION  xvii 

strike."     Yet    allowing  for    all   this,   even   in    A 
Life    Dratna    there    are    passages    of    sustained 
beauty  of  which  none  but  the  incompetent  can 
possibly  fail  to  feel  the  charm.     The  story,  as  has 
been  said,  is  slight  and  airy,  yet  there  is  plenty 
of  passion  in  it — too  much,  many  have  felt.     The 
central  character — Walter — passes  through  purga- 
torial flames  of  his  own  lighting  to  better  things. 
The  cry,  which  was  at  the  beginning  for  "  Fame ! 
Fame !   next   grandest  word  to   God ! "   becomes 
essentially  ennobled,  as  it  passes  through  varying 
phases,  up  to   the   richly  worded  confession  and 
aspiration  at  the  close.     It  is  here  that  one  may 
call  in  question  Tennyson's  careless  and  inadequate 
summing   up  of  Alexander  Smith.     Speaking   to 
Mrs.    Bradley,   the  late  laureate   said :   "  He   has 
plenty  of  promise,  but  he  must  learn  a  different 
creed  to  that  he  preaches  in  those  lines :  '  Fame, 
fame,  thou  art  next  to  God.'     Next  to  God — next 
to  the  Devil,  say  I.     Fame  might  be  worth  having 
if  it  helped  us  to  do  good  to  a  single  mortal,  but 
what  is  it  ?  only  the  pleasure  of  hearing  one's  self 
talked  of  up  and  down  the   street."     Tennyson, 
you  will  observe,  misquotes  as  well  as  misjudges. 
He  had  probably  not  taken  the  trouble  to  read 
A  Life  Drama  throughout   its   slender   compass, 
and  yet  he  ventured  to  pronounce  a  verdict  on 
what  he  rashly  concluded  to  be  Smith's   central 
doctrine.     It  looks,   indeed,   as  if  Tennyson  had 
not   read  more  than  the  first  scene,  for  it  is  im- 
possible to  believe  that  he  could  have  failed  to 
admire  much  in  later  scenes,  and  especially  in  the 
ending  of  A  Life  Drama,  which  indicates,  in  no 
b 


xviii  INTRODUCTION 

uncertain  way,  the  journey  traversed,  and  the 
heights  attained,  by  the  hero  of  the  Drama — if 
such  Walter  may  be  called.  It  was  also  quite 
absurd  for  Rossetti  to  write:  "The  Life  Drama 
has  nothing  particular  to  say,  except  that  it  seems 
to  bear  vaguely  towards  the  favourite  doctrine  that 
scoundrelism  is  a  sacred  probation  of  the  soul." 

To  attempt  to  quote  from  A  Life  Drama  is  out 
of  the  question,  although  there  is  much  that  is 
worth  quoting  in  the  wild,  sombre,  incoherent, 
youthful  effort.  The  lyric  about  Love  in  the  first 
scene ;  the  story  of  Lady  Blanche ;  the  picture  of 
the  grim  old  king's  death,  and  the  lines  in  the 
measure  of  "  Locksley  Hall,"  in  the  second  scene, 
are  all  in  their  way  notable ;  while  the  unrhymed 
stanzas  beginning,  "The  callow  young  were 
huddling  in  the  nests,"  in  the  sixth  scene,  have  a 
tenderness  of  their  own  (see  Dreamthorp,  p.  lo). 
It  takes  some  courage,  perhaps,  to  say  it  in  these 
days,  but  it  shall  be  said  here  and  now:  How 
plentiful  are  the  footprints  of  Beauty  in  and  about 
those  loosely  joined  scenes  ! 

" '  You   should   give   the    world,'    she    murmured,    '  such 
delicious  thoughts  as  these.' 
'  They     are    fit    to    line     portmanteaus : '  '  Nay,'     she 
whispered,  *  Memories.' " 

The  lady  had  the  better  judgment. 

Of  the  lengthy  poems,  published  along  with 
A  Life  Drama,  Lady  Barbara  is  easily  first 
favourite;  and  of  the  eight  sonnets  included  in 
the  volume,  perhaps  the  best  is  that  beginning, 
"  Beauty  still  walketh  on  the  earth  and  air,"  which 


INTRODUCTION  xix 

has  found  its  way  into  more  than  one  anthology : 
of  the  fifth  it  need  only  be  said  that  it  is  even 
warmer  than  Keats's  last  sonnet.  Several  of  the 
sonnets  are  marred  by  inroads  of  aggressive  prose, 
for  example :  "  'Tis  fine  to  loiter  through  the 
lighted  streets  at  Christmas  time ; "  and  all  of  them, 
with  one  exception,  would  be  ruled  out  of  order  by 
sticklers  for  structural  perfection.  In  spite  of  what 
Professor  Saintsbury  has  called  the  "  tendency  to 
rant,"  and  in  full  remembrance  of  the  mass  of 
criticism  that  has  been  passed  on  Smith's  first 
volume,  there  seems  to  me  to  be  substantial  truth 
in  the  language  of  one  who  wrote  in  the  National 
Observer  ten  years  ago  :  "  We  have  yet  to  see  justice 
done  to  the  poetical  capacity  of  Alexander  Smith. 
The  solid  excellence  of  A  Life  Drama  .  .  .  ought 
to  be  universally  admitted." 

This,  then,  was  Alexander  Smith's  first  important 
achievement.  In  money  it  brought  him  ;^ioo 
(which  was  supplemented  at  a  later  date) ;  in  fame  ? 
— we  shall  see.  The  book  sold  to  the  number  of 
10,000  in  Great  Britain  and  the  Colonies,  leaving 
the  American  edition  out  of  view.  It  has  been 
stated  that  as  many  as  30,000  copies  were  sold 
abroad.  Up  to  the  date  of  Smith's  death,  the 
book  had  gone  through  ten  editions.  Despite  the 
warm  gusts  of  praise  and  flattery  that  played  upon 
him,  the  poet  kept  his  head.  This  was,  I  think,  a 
feature  of  the  man  that  has  been  less  noticed  than 
it  deserved  to  be.  The  test  was  one  from  which 
lesser  men  would  not  have  issued  unspoiled — 
greater  men  too,  perhaps.  To  be  called,  here  and 
there,  "a  finer  poet  than  Keats  was  in  the  very 


XX  INTRODUCTION 

qualities  in  which  Keats  is  finest,"  or,  "  the  greatest 
poet  Scotland  has  ever  produced,"  would  have 
been  more  than  enough  for  most  men,  yet  "  now, 
as  always,"  wrote  one  of  his  most  intimate  friends, 
"his  bearing  was  distinguished  by  a  quiet  and 
manly  simplicity." 

The  first  thing  that  Smith  did  on  receiving  his 
;^ioo  was — so  like  a  poet,  was  it  not? — to  give 
up  his  pattern-designing,  in  which,  at  least  one 
authority  says,  he  had  shown  some  skill.  I  fear, 
however,  that  the  statement  must  be  overruled  by 
P.  P.  Alexander's  explicit  words :  "  This  I  chance 
to  know  from  a  sure  source,  having  had  it  of  one 
of  his  employers.  This  gentleman,  some  time  after, 
along  with  another  Glasgow  friend  of  Smith's,  I 
happened  to  meet  at  an  inn  in  the  Highlands.  In 
the  course  of  the  evening  he  fell  into  a  state  which 
I  will  tenderly  call  communicative ;  and  my  friend — 
well  known  in  the  West  as  a  humorist — could  not 
resist  the  temptation  to  draw  him  out  on  the 
subject  of  Smith  and  his  poetry.  His  critique  of 
the  Life  Drama  was  exquisite,  and  curiously 
accordant  with  the  opinion  of  some  of  its  later 
critics.  Of  the  Bard's  designing  talent  (of  which 
he  might  be  admitted  a  better  judge)  he  made  so 
little,  that  he  asserted  the  poetry  had  been  written 

'  at  my  expense,  sir,  every line  of  it.'  ...  Of 

course,  on  the  first  opportunity.  Smith  was  regaled 
with  this  little  anecdote,  and  it  seemed  to  delight 
him  extremely." 

Having  freed  himself  from  his  uncongenial  work, 
Smith  started  for  London  with  his  friend  John 
Nichol, — who   subsequently  becam'e   Professor  of 


INTRODUCTION  xxi 

English  Literature  in  Glasgow  University.  Pro- 
ceeding in  leisurely  fashion  by  the  Lake  District, 
the  travellers  called  on  Miss  Martineau,  at 
Ambleside.  Smith  loved  to  tell  a  rather  ludicrous 
story  about  the  visit.  Miss  Martineau  was  not  a 
little  deaf.  There  were  several  ladies  present,  and 
chairs  were,  doubtless,  drawn  in  a  circle  round  the 
already  famous  young  poet  and  his  companion. 
Nichol  kept  the  conversation  going.  A  lull 
occurred,  and  Smith  hazarded  the  remark :  "  It 
has  been  a  very  fine  day."  Miss  Martineau  bent 
forward,  anxious  not  to  miss  a  word.  Possibly  she 
had  lost  some  phrase  of  golden  imagery!  Poor 
Smith  repeated  the  words.  Still  she  could  not 
hear.  "Would  Mr.  Smith  be  so  good  as  to 
repeat  what  he  had  said  ?  "  He  obliged — and  yet 
she  could  not  hear.  The  ear-trumpet  was  brought, 
into  which  the  creator  of  so  many  starry  metaphors 
bawled  his  weather-retrospect.  The  story  breaks 
off  at  this  interesting  point.  Before  reaching 
London  a  visit  was  paid  to  Philip  James  Bailey,  of 
Festus  fame.  Among  those  who  received  the 
poet  kindly  in  London  were  George  Henry  Lewes, 
Herbert  Spencer,  and  Arthur  Helps. 

Much  was  now  being  made  of  Smith.  There 
would  seem,  indeed,  to  have  been  a  proposal  to 
send  him  to  Oxford  or  Cambridge — the  latter  of 
which  he  had  visited — for  we  find  Mrs.  Browning 
writing  thus  sensibly  to  Miss  Mitford  :  "  What  can 
be  more  absurd  than  the  proposition  of  *  finishing ' 
Alexander  Smith  at  Oxford  or  Cambridge?  We 
don't  know  how  to  deal  with  literary  genius  in 
England,  certainly.     We   are   apt   to   treat  poets 


xxii  INTRODUCTION 

(when  we  condescend  to  treat  them  at  all)  as  over- 
masculine  papas  do  babies  ;  and  Monckton  Milnes 
was  accused  of  only  touching  his  in  order  to  poke 
out  its  eyes,  for  instance.  Why  not  put  the  poet 
in  a  public  library?  There  are  such  situations 
even  among  us,  and  something  of  the  kind  was 
done  for  Patmore."  While  making  mention  of 
Mrs.  Browning,  it  may  be  fitting,  at  this  point,  to 
state  her  opinion  of  Alexander  Smith  as  a  poet. 
Writing  to  Miss  E.  F.  Haworth,  Mrs.  Browning 
says :  "  Your  Alexander  Smith  has  noble  stuff  in 
him.  It's  undeniable,  indeed.  It  strikes  me, 
however,  that  he  has  more  imagery  than  verity, 
more  colour  than  form.  He  will  learn  to  be  less 
arbitrary  in  the  use  of  his  figures — of  which  the 
opulence  is  so  striking — and  attain,  as  he  ripens, 
more  clearness  of  outline  and  depth  of  intention. 
Meanwhile  none  but  a  poet  could  write  this,  and 
this,  and  this."  It  must  be  added,  however,  that 
three  months  later  she  expressed  herself  not  quite 
so  favourably  to  Mr.  Westwood. 

The  new  poet  was  asked  out  a  good  deal.  He 
visited  Inveraray  for  a  week,  on  the  invitation  of 
the  Duke  of  Argyll — himself  a  pleasant  and 
effective  writer  of  verse,  as  well  as  a  trenchant  prose 
author — and  some  time  afterwards  he  was  invited 
by  Lord  Dufferin  to  visit  him  in  Ireland.  But 
this  was  not  enough.  The  accustomed  means  of 
bread-winning  had  been  forsaken :  What  was  to 
be  done?  Life  Dramas  were  not  the  sort  of  things 
to  rain  down  on  him.  Much  time  had  gone  to 
the  making  of  his  book ;  so  many  years  of  patient 
image-worship  were  in  it,  that  its  author  might 


INTRODUCTION  xxiii 

have  been  excused  had  he  given  hospitality  to 
Nello's  fear  that  the  good  wine  of  his  understanding 
had  all  run  off  "at  the  spigot  of  authorship," 
leaving  him,  like  an  empty  cask,  "  with  an  odour 
of  dregs."  For  a  time  he  became  editor  of  the 
Glasgow  Miscellany,  a  literary  weekly,  belonging 
to  R.  Buchanan,  the  proprietor  of  the  Glasgow 
Sentinel,  and  the  father  of  the  Robert  Buchanan 
of  whom  we  all  know  something.  The  paper  was 
not  a  success,  but  happily,  when,  in  1854,  the 
post  of  Secretary  to  Edinburgh  University  became 
vacant,  Alexander  Smith  received  the  appointment, 
principally,  it  is  said,  through  the  influence  of 
Duncan  McLaren  (who  married  John  Bright's 
sister,  and  whose  name  is  still  honourably  re- 
membered in  Edinburgh — his  son  being  one  of 
the  present  Lords  of  Session),  at  that  time  Lord 
Provost,  and  later,  one  of  the  members  of 
Parliament  for  the  city.  It  is  true  the  salary  was 
only;^i5o — although  it  was  some  years  afterwards 
raised  on  Smith's  undertaking  the  duties  of 
Registrar  and  Secretary  to  the  University  Council. 
For  these  additional  duties  he  received  jQj^o  and 
j^io  respectively.  There  were,  however,  great 
advantages  in  being  resident  in  Edinburgh.  He 
had,  at  least,  obtained  what  he  sought.  He  was 
himself  such  a  one  as  Chaucer's  lean  "  clerk,"  of 
whom  he  writes :  "  He  will  never  be  rich,  I  fear. 
.  .  .  He  would  rather  have  a  few  books  bound  in 
black  and  red  hanging  above  his  bed  than  be 
sheriff  of  the  county."  One  recalls  the  words  that 
occur  in  an  early  letter  to  the  Rev.  T.  Brisbane : 
"What  I  would  like  is  just  some  way  of  living, 


xxiv  INTRODUCTION 

which  would  feed  and  cover  this  carcase,  and  allow 
much  time  to  roam  through  book-world  and  the 
world  of  my  own  spirit."  This  way  of  life  was 
now  his ;  and  as  regards  the  city  of  his  adoption, 
one  also  recalls  the  proud  phrases  he  used  at  a 
much  later  date :  "  Residence  in  Edinburgh  is  an 
education  in  itself.  Its  beauty  refines  one  like 
being  in  love.  It  is  perennial  like  a  play  of 
Shakespeare's.  Nothing  can  stale  its  infinite 
variety."  Again  :  "Of  all  British  cities,  Edinburgh 
— Weimar-like  in  its  intellectual  and  aesthetic 
leanings,  Florence-like  in  its  freedom  from  the 
stains  of  trade,  and  more  than  Florence-like  in 
its  beauty — is  the  one  best  suited  for  the  conduct 
of  a  lettered  life.  The  city  as  an  entity  does  not 
stimulate  like  London,  the  present  moment  is  not 
nearly  so  intense,  life  does  not  roar  and  chafe — 
it  murmurs  only;  and  this  interest  of  the  hour, 
mingled  with  something  of  the  quietude  of  distance 
and  the  past — which  is  the  spiritual  atmosphere 
of  the  city — is  the  most  favourable  of  all  conditions 
for  intellectual  work  and  intellectual  enjoyment." 
Business  hours  of  from  ten  to  four — not  requiring, 
if  all  accounts  are  true,  to  be  too  punctually  kept 
— left  wide  openings  for  the  use  of  his  pen  on 
other  and  pleasanter  excursions.  Of  these,  as 
will  be  seen,  full  advantage  was  taken.  He  was 
an  extremely  sociable  man,  despite  his  quiet 
demeanour,  and  the  Raleigh  Club  (called  after 
Sir  Walter)  was  probably  founded  about  this 
time  by  him.  He  was,  at  all  events,  secretary  to 
the  club,  which  held  weekly  meetings,  when 
social  conversation  and  criticism  were  indulged  in 


INTRODUCTION  xxv 

under  the  misty  and  fragrant  auspices  of  Lady 
Nicotine.  Sheriff  Nicolson  has  explicitly  stated 
that  Smith  was  "the  man  whom  all  the  members 
loved  most." 

In  spite  of  his  University  connection,  nay, 
because  of  it,  Alexander  Smith  was  now  fairly 
launched  as  a  poet  on  the  perilous  seas  of  the 
world's  fickle  favours.  To  begin  with,  he  had 
an  extraordinarily  common  name  to  maintain  in 
present  honour,  and  to  raise,  perhaps,  to  permanent 
fame.  What  a  sweet  savour — itself  a  bid  for 
remembrance  —  lingers  round  the  very  names 
of  Waller,  Cowley,  Marvell,  Hawthorne;  what 
strength  there  is  about  those  of  Emerson,  Marlowe, 
Drayton,  Byron,  Milton,  Arnold.  Plainly,  the 
name,  Alexander  Smith,  required  much  extraneous 
glory  to  make  it  famous.  And  yet  how  common 
are  the  names  of  Scott  and  Burns !  They  are 
magic  words  all  the  same.  Pronounced  aloud, 
they  awake  the  mind  as  with  a  trumpet-tone. 
So  great  a  part  has  genius  in  the  alchemy  of 
sound.  At  any  rate  there  it  was  —  Alexander 
Smith !  Why,  the  Smiths  (taking  the  ordinary 
spelling  only)  who  have  risen  high  enough  on 
the  ladder  of  life  to  receive  mention  in  the 
Dictionary  of  National  Biography,  including  the 
Supplement,  cover  170  pages  —  the  Alexander 
Smiths  being  four  in  number,  and  the  subject  of 
this  essay  occupying  nearly  two  pages,  while  the 
other  three  together  have  to  content  themselves 
with  Httle  more  than  a  fourth  of  that  space.  It 
never  seems  to  have  occurred  to  our  poet  to 
alter  the  simple  spelling,  or  to  use  a  double  name 


xxvi  INTRODUCTION 

and  glorify  it  by  the  device  of  a  hyphen,  as  the 
manner  of  some  is.  After  all,  as  the  bearer  of 
the  name  wrote  in  his  essay,  "  On  the  Importance 
of  a  Man  to  Himself,"  "a  man  should  be  known 
by  something  else  than  his  name."  As  it  turned 
out,  whatever  was  lacking  in  the  name  was  made 
up  by  the  paean  of  praise  that  continued  to 
sound  in  his  ears.  An  article  on  A  Life  Drama 
appeared  even  in  the  Revue  des  deux  Mondes. 
But  this  was  not  to  last. 

An  ostensible  review  of  a  coming  volume,  to 
be  entitled  Firmiltan,  attracted  attention  in  May 
1854,  and,  in  the  same  year,  there  was  published 
Firmilian  ;  or,  the  Student  of  Badajoz :  A  Spasmodic 
Tragedy,  by  P.  Percy  Jones.  It  was  at  first 
taken  seriously,  but  it  soon  became  manifest  that 
it  was  a  satirical  onslaught,  by  Professor  Aytoun, 
on  the  poetry  of  Bailey,  Dobell,  and  Alexander 
Smith.  Henceforth  the  word  "spasmodic"  was 
a  kind  of  burr  that  was  thrown  about,  at  times 
by  the  least  critical — by  men  even  who  knew 
nothing  of  the  writers  but  their  names.  But  it  had 
the  qualities  of  a  burr — it  stuck.  It  cannot  be 
shaken  off  even  to-day.  The  epithet  was  not 
Aytoun's  own,  for  it  was  applied  by  Carlyle  to 
Byron,  though  it  seems  to  me  that  it  might  more 
fitly  be  applied  to  Carlyle  himself.  In  any  case, 
it  is  but  partially  applicable  to  Smith's  poetry, 
and  when  it  is  so,  it  is  chiefly  of  A  Life  Drama 
that  we  think.  Smith  himself  took  the  matter 
very  philosophically,  and  when  the  charge  of 
wholesale  plagiarism  was  added,  and  pressed 
home  upon   him,  he    showed   little  resentment, 


INTRODUCTION  xxvii 

although  now  and  again  he  passed,  and  continued 
to  pass,  by  word  of  mouth  and  written  statement, 
caustic  remarks  upon  the  silliness  of  the  charge. 
Some  of  these  may  be  found  in  his  essay  on 
Scottish  Ballads  and  in  A  Sumrner  in  Skye. 
"  Never,"  writes  one,  "  was  such  pecking.  The 
feathers  flew  about,  green,  blue,  and  crimson,  as 
at  the  murder  of  a  parrot."  But  the  best  critics 
took  his  part,  and  Punch  aided  Smith's  side 
mightily,  in  the  shape  of  brilliant  parody — for 
which  Shirley  Brooks  generally  receives  credit — 
that  reduced  the  charge  to  sheer  nonsense.  It 
has  been  asserted — but  it  is  not  easy  of  belief — 
that  Aytoun  hardly  intended  to  include  Smith  in 
the  obloquy  of  the  "spasmodic  school."  It  is 
certain,  however,  that  Aytoun  was  on  a  very 
friendly  footing  with  the  poet.  It  was  he,  indeed, 
who,  in  a  kindly  way,  recommended  Smith  to  write 
prose,  as  more  money  was  to  be  made  thereby 
than  by  verse,  and  who  further  paved  the  way 
for  the  admission  of  his  work  to  Blackwood's 
Magazine.  You  may  remember  that  Smith  makes 
appreciative  reference  to  Aytoun's  Ballads  of 
Scotland  in  his  essay  "  A  Shelf  in  my  Bookcase," 
and  also  mentions  the  Professor  in  A  Summer 
in  Skye,  as — 

"Aytoun — with  silver  bugle  at  his  side, 
That  echoes  through  the  gorges  of  romance — 
Pity  that  'tis  so  seldom  at  his  lips  ! " 

But  it  is  not  necessary  to  pursue  the  question  of 
Alexander  Smith's  plagiarism.  It  is  a  deadly  dull 
subject  j  and  those  who  like  such  things  may  be 
referred  to  the  Appendix  to  Last  Leaves, 


xxviii  INTRODUCTION 

In  the  winter  of  1854,  Sydney  Thompson  Dobell, 
better  known  simply  as  Sydney  Dobell,  came  to 
Edinburgh.  We  have  almost  forgotten  him  now, 
but  The  Roman  and  Balder,  both  published  in  the 
eighteen  fifties,  were  widely  read  in  their  day,  and 
recognised  as  containing,  in  spite  of  numerous 
faults,  much  that  is  admirable  and  worthy  of 
lengthened  life.  Yet,  possibly,  his  Keith  of 
Ravelston  will  outlive  the  mass  of  his  work. 
Smith's  friendship  with  Dobell  became  a  very 
close  and  affectionate  one.  In  the  following  year 
the  two  poets  jointly  brought  out  a  little  volume 
of  Sonnets  on  the  Crimean  War.  This  venture, 
although  creditable  enough  to  both  poets,  did  not 
materially  advance  Smith's  reputation. 

Time  passed;  and  we  now  come  to  an  event 
that  filled  Smith's  life  with  happiness,  and  opened 
out  for  him  a  new  world  of  interest  and  enjoy- 
ment in  Skye.  Had  he  missed  this  Skye  con- 
nection, there  would,  undoubtedly,  have  passed 
out  of  his  unusually  quiet  life,  as  we  know  it  to-day, 
much  of  its  colour  and  literary  fruitfulness.  Early 
in  1857  he  married  Flora  Macdonald,  of  Skye,  the 
eldest  daughter  of  Mr.  Macdonald  of  Ord,  and  a 
blood  relation  of  the  Flora  Macdonald  of  unfading 
romance  and  fame.  In  course  of  time  a  villa  was 
taken  at  Wardie — then  at  some  little  distance 
from  the  city,  but  now  having  railway  station  and 
cable  car  close  at  hand.  Everyone  who  knows 
Edinburgh  well  will  remember  that  from  no  other 
spot  does  the  fairest  of  cities  spread  out  its  beauty 
to  better  advantage  than  it  does  as  seen  from 
Wardie.     The  outline  is  superb.     The  eye  travels 


INTRODUCTION  xxix 

from  the  Calton  Hill,  past  the  sheer  bulk  of  the 
Castle  Rock,  and  spires  innumerable,  on  to  the 
hospitals,  that  look  like  palaces  in  the  west.  In 
the  clear  air  of  morning,  or  in  the  rosy  light  of 
sunset,  the  city  makes  a  brave  and  a  proud  show. 
Behind  it,  in  the  east,  Arthur's  Seat  towers  up  like  a 
watchful  lion,  while  the  long  wavy  line  of  the 
Pentlands,  with  their  purple  hollows,  passes 
gradually  out  of  sight  into  the  far  west.  To  the 
north  lies  the  Firth  of  Forth,  with  its  islands  and 
its  pleasant  places  by  the  marge.  Yes,  Wardie  is 
still  a  beautiful  place,  and  one  may  say,  without 
much  exaggeration,  on  a  fine  evening,  when  the 
air  is  still  and  sharp  with  coming  winter — 

"  Earth  has  not  anything  to  show  more  fair." 

But  why  dwell  on  the  subject  ?  Has  not  Alexander 
Smith  himself  written  in  its  praise  in  Wardie — 
Spring-timel  Even  apart  from  money  considera- 
tions it  was  a  fitting  place  for  this  dreamer  to  five — 
and  here  he  lived  until  his  death.  A  house  in  a 
fashionable  square  or  crescent  in  the  city  would 
have  had  no  charm  for  him.  He  had  had  his 
fill  of  city  life,  as  many  of  the  autobiographical 
parts  in  A  Life  Drama  and  other  of  his  poems 
amply  prove.  Here,  then,  at  Wardie,  he  used  to 
dispense  modest  but  warm  hospitality  to  the  friends 
who  sauntered  down  the  steep  hill  by  the  Botanic 
Gardens,  or  by  Crewe  Toll,  on  Saturday  or 
Sunday  afternoons.  "The  poet,"  writes  one  who 
shared  his  friendship,  "would  placidly  sit  beaming 
on  his  friends  a  quiet  kindliness,  and  vomiting 
volumes  of  smoke  upon  them — not  for  the  most 


XXX  INTRODUCTION 

part  himself  very  greatly  caring  to  talk,  but  simply 
dropping  into  conversation  from  time  to  time  some 
pertinence  of  sense  or  humour,  and  plainly  with 
his  whole  soul  lapped  in  easy,  indolent  delight," 

The  year  of  his  marriage  saw  Smith's  second 
volume  through  the  press.  City  Poems  was 
published  by  Messrs.  Macmillan,  who  gave  ;^2oo 
for  the  book.  Its  reception  was,  on  the  whole, 
disheartening.  Much  of  the  criticism  it  provoked 
was  narrow  and  unsympathetic — the  AthencButn, 
for  example,  professing  to  find  in  it  "mutilated 
property  of  the  bards."  Taking  up  the  thin 
volume  to-day,  one  finds  in  it  much  to  commend, 
and  little  to  condemn.  There  is  already  less  of 
"spasm."  The  book  consists  of  half  a  dozen 
poems,  and  there  is  much  autobiographical  matter 
present.  The  verse  deals  with  common  things. 
It  is  not  in  any  way  high-flown,  and  yet  its  writer 
seems  to  bring  a  new  light  upon  "  the  familiar  face 
of  every  day."  No  one  was  more  open  to  accept, 
and  welcome,  an  imaginative  hint  than  Smith  was. 
Wherever  he  happened  to  be — there  he  was  only 
in  part.  Some  touch,  some  word  —  and  his 
immediate  surroundings  vanished.  An  oyster-man 
came  crying  down  the  street — 

"  And  straight,  as  if  I  stood  on  dusky  shores, 
I  saw  the  trenmulous  silver  of  the  sea, 
Set  to  some  coast  beneath  the  mighty  moon." 

It  is  this  faculty  of  sudden  vision  that  gives  to 
much  of  his,  and  all  other  poetry,  its  perennial 
beauty.  It  is  his  own  gift  that  he  describes  in 
"  Horton  "  as  that  power  which,  "  for  one  immortal 


INTRODUCTION  xxxi 

moment,"  makes  us  one  with  things  and  people 
long  gone,  and  gives  the  assurance  that  one  blood 
beats  in  all.  Instead  of  the  cry  for  "  Fame ! 
Fame  ! "  we  have  now,  in  City  Foems,  the  view 
expressed,  that  unless  a  poet  can  find  his  chief  joy 
in  "the  grace  and  the  beauty  of  his  song,"  he 
should  not  sing  at  all.  His  poem  "  Glasgow  "  is 
no  doubt  the  finest  thing  ever  addressed  to  the 
great  city  which  is  sometimes  badly  conceived  of 
by  those  who  do  not  know  it.  The  mere  visitor  to 
Glasgow  streets  knows  nothing  of  the  beauties  by 
which  the  vast,  Clyde-divided,  haunt  of  men  is 
surrounded.  Smith  knew  these  well — the  reaches 
of  the  river,  before,  fouled  and  slow,  it  slides 
through  the  city  bridges ;  the  Campsie  Hills,  the 
pleasant  places  south  and  west,  to  make  no 
mention  of  the  unsurpassed  waterways,  where  the 
Firth  of  Clyde  broadens  and  branches.  These 
were  all  certainly  well  known  to  him  in  manhood, 
but  as  a  boy  he  knew  little  beyond  the  pavements. 
He  knew  what  he  called  the  tragic  heart  of  the 
town  as  he  knew  his  mother's  face.  "Squire 
Maurice "  deals  with  the  eternal  question  of 
marriage — ill-assorted.  As  for  "A  Boy's  Poem" — 
a  tale  of  poverty  and  love — it  has  surely  been 
unduly  decried.  It  is  not  a  pretentious  thing,  and 
it  answers  well  to  its  own  statement  that  in  it 
nothing  more  was  sought  than  the  "  sweet  relief " 
which  dwells  in  verse-making.  It  is  a  boy's 
poem,  indeed,  but  such  as  few  boys  could  write — 
and  there  an  end.  It  is  interesting,  by  the  way, 
to  compare  the  love  episode  in  it,  with  the  prose 
description  of  something  of  the  same  sort  in  the 


xxxii  INTRODUCTION 

first  essay  in  Dreamthorp.  The  last  stanzas  in 
the  book  have  more  to  commend  them  than  their 
stately  cadence.  They  show  an  altered  stand- 
point, and  teach  an  old  but  ever  necessary  lesson. 
In  short,  there  was  really  nothing  in  the  book  to 
excite  men — even  critics.  A  better  second  to  A 
Life  Drama  might  have  been,  but  a  much  worse 
might  easily  have  followed  that  exhausting  per- 
formance. The  fact  is,  the  undue  appreciation  of 
Smith  was  beginning,  according  to  the  Socratic 
method,  to  breed  its  opposite,  for  A  Life 
Drama  was  anew  severely  handled  in  some 
quarters,  and  City  Poems  therewith. 

Edwin  of  Deira  followed  in  1861.  Although 
the  book  passed  through  a  second  edition  within  a 
reasonable  time,  it  did  not  give  the  poet  back  his 
past.  Once  more  misfortune  dogged  his  steps. 
The  manuscript  of  the  poem  was  actually  seen 
by  several  people  before  Tennyson's  Ldylls  of  the 
King  had  been  even  announced  as  coming,  and  yet 
the  younger  man's  book  had  the  bad  luck  to  be 
published  after  the  late  poet-laureate's  great  work. 
By  some  it  was  regarded  as  a  deliberate  imitation. 
•It  is  idle  to  deny  that  Edwin  has  much  that  is 
Tennysonian  about  it,  but  what  serious  poet  of  the 
time  escaped  the  dominating  influence  of  that  lord 
of  song?  There  are,  however,  other  and  older 
influences  to  be  traced.  Imitation  ?  No.  There 
can  be  no  question  that  Edwin  is  a  noble  pro- 
duction, artistically  handled,  rhythmic,  fluent, 
unspasmodic  There  may  not  be  so  much  verbal 
embroidery  as  was  present  in  earlier  work,  but  the 
texture  of  the  fabric  is  finer  throughout.     The 


INTRODUCTION  xxxiii 

progress  shown  is,  in  fact,  enormous,  and  as 
Edwin  was  the  last  of  his  books  of  verse,  this 
seems  a  fitting  place  to  say  that  if  you  wish  to  see 
how  far  Alexander  Smith  travelled  from  his  early 
ideal  of  poetry,  you  have  but  to  turn  to  the 
illuminative  passages  in  which  Scottish  ballads  and 
German  hymns  are  dwelt  upon  in  "  A  Shelf  in  my 
Bookcase." 

Moving  cautiously,  after  their  experience  with 
City  Poems,  Messrs.  Macmillan  offered  half  profit 
terms  to  Smith,  and  the  money  result  of  the  four 
years'  labour  spent  upon  the  book  was  ^15  5s.  3d. 
— the  odd  shillings  and  pence  more,  it  is  true,  than 
Milton  received  for  Paradise  Lost.  This  com- 
parison, however — if  it  occurred  to  the  poet  to 
make  it — can  scarcely  have  proved  equal  to  the 
task  of  consolation.  Edwin  is,  of  course,  Edwin  of 
Northumbria.  Deira  comprehended  what  are  now 
known  as  Cumberland,  Durham,  Westmoreland, 
York,  and  Lancashire.  The  story  is  told  by  Bede 
and  others.  Edwin  was  thirty-two  when  he  became 
king  in  617,  and  he  reigned  until  633 — ruling 
in  Northumbria  from  mid-England  to  the  Firth  of 
Forth,  whereon  he  founded  Edwin's  Burgh  or 
Edinburgh.  In  633  the  king  was  killed,  at  the 
age  of  forty-eight,  at  Hatfield,  Yorkshire.  It  will 
be  seen  that  Smith  had  chosen  a  subject  which 
lay  very  close  to  his  affections,  for  no  writer — not 
Stevenson  nor  another — has  written  of  Edinburgh 
with  more  distinction  than  has  the  author  of 
Edwin  of  Deira.  The  story,  as  given  by  Bede,  is 
followed  fairly  closely,  though  not  slavishly.  The 
poem  has  a  spacious  air  about  it,  a  rich  commingling 
c 


xxxlv  INTRODUCTION 

of  love  and  valour.  It  is  like  a  tapestry,  showing 
olden  things  at  which  we  partly  smile  and  partly 
wonder,  but  which  we  love  for  a  certain  far-removed 
beauty  and  romance.  Yet  there  are,  as  in  the 
Idylls  of  the  King,  modern  hints  and  reflections 
which  keep  the  remoteness  from  sinking  back 
beyond  everyday  vision.  Passages  of  great  charm 
are  freely  come  upon,  yet  the  general  level  is  so 
high  that  these  are  not  so  outstanding  as  in  the 
poet's  earlier  volumes.  Attention  may  be  called 
to  the  picture  of  the  old  king  introducing  Edwin  to 
his  daughter  Bertha,  and  to  the  passage  descriptive 
of  the  return  from  the  hunt,  when  Edwin  and 
Bertha  first  experience  mutual  love — that  "un- 
known sweet  land  of  delicate  light  divinely  aired." 
Touching,  too,  is  the  song  that  Bertha  sings  in  her 
"  eastern  turret,"  when  war  is  abroad,  and  she  fears 
the  worst  and  weeps.  Not  less  real  than  these, 
and  infinitely  tender,  is  the  description  of  the 
coming  of  Bertha's  child.  And  when  the  time  has 
come  —  when  fearing,  yet  fascinated,  the  king 
resolves  to  make  his  realm  Christian,  under  the 
spell  of  the  Christ  that  seemed  to  break  on  him 
"  like  a  strange  dawn  within  whose  light  The  world 
takes  other  hues,"  the  whole  transition -period  is 
graphically  yet  delicately  depicted.  Bound  up 
with  Edwin  of  Deira  were  two  Skye  poems : 
"Torquil  and  Oona"  and  "Blaavin" — the  latter 
being  touched  to  fine  issues  by  tender  references  to 
the  poet's  domestic  life.  His  little  daughter 
Flora,  of  whom  he  writes  so  lovingly,  survived  her 
father  only  by  two  months. 

Dreamthorp  was  published  by  Messrs.  Strahan  ia 


INTRODUCTION  xxxv 

1863.  It  need  hardly  be  said  in  this  place,  that  it 
is  described  by  its  author  as  "  A  Book  of  Essays 
written  in  the  Country."  Dreamthorp,  with  its 
old  castle  and  its  lake,  is,  of  course,  Linlithgow, 
On  the  whole,  perhaps  this  may  be  regarded  as 
Alexander  Smith's  most  characteristic  work.  It 
has  certainly  more  readers  than  any  other  of  his 
books,  and  it  is  not  too  much  to  say  that  there  are 
passages  in  it  that  may  deliberately  challenge  com- 
parison with  the  work  of  any  English  essayist. 
Holding  the  little  volume,  and  feeUng  the  worth 
of  it  warm  the  hand,  one  cannot  but  let  certain 
thoughts  have  their  way.  It  may  well  be,  indeed, 
that  this  book  will  present  victorious  claims  to 
remembrance  when  vastly  more  ambitious  works 
of  erudite  professors  have  passed,  on  an  ascending 
scale,  from  shelf  to  shelf,  until  they  find  rest  in 
dusty  oblivion  at  the  top.  Some  of  these  gentle- 
men, it  may  be  (although  we  know  that,  at  least, 
Professor  Blackie  and  Professor  Aytoun  were  his 
friends)  looked  loftily  out  of  eye-corners  at  the 
unassuming  Secretary  as  they  passed  him  in  the 
quadrangle,  or  between  the  mighty  pillars  of  the 
University  gateway.  Be  that  as  it  may,  it  is  no 
disparagement  to  say  such  things  of  their  books. 
They  dealt,  necessarily,  with  a  different  material — a 
material,  however  pretentious,  that  crumbles  early 
and  readily  under  the  relentless  tooth  of  time. 
For  consider:  a  book  of  science  is  out  of  date 
in  a  few  years ;  books  of  philosophy  and  theology 
may  be  said  to  live  by  devouring  each  other ; 
while  a  little  work  of  delicate  and  suggestive  fancy 
and  sentiment,  like  Dreatnthorp,  has  an  assured 


xxxvi  INTRODUCTION 

place  and  a  long  life.  It  depends  for  its  renewed 
existence  and  appeal  on  the  undying  qualities  of 
the  natural  mind  and  heart,  which  as  generation 
succeeds  generation,  remain  in  large  degree 
essentially  the  same.  This  is,  however,  I  well 
know,  rather  a  first  thought  than  a  last  word  on 
a  great  question.  No  wonder  Dreamthorp  was  a 
success,  and  is  still  a  thing  of  beauty  and  joy  to 
all  who  have  hearts  for  its  fresh  charm,  seductive 
humour,  and  gentle  irony  !  The  book  is  here,  and 
speaks  soberly,  yet  with  chastened  eloquence,  for 
itself.  There  is  no  call  to  linger  over  it  now. 
The  general  remarks  on  Smith  as  an  essayist, 
towards  the  close  of  this  Introduction,  may,  how- 
ever, be  taken  as  applying  especially  to  Dream- 
thorp. In  one  of  the  Literary  Competitions  in  the 
Academy  a  few  years  ago,  Dreamthorp  was  freely 
named  as  the  most  deserving  of  neglected  books. 
May  the  present  reprint  in  some  small  way,  help 
to  remove  it  from  such  a  category. 

No  one  who  has  read  A  Summer  in  Skye — 
published  by  Messrs.  Strahan  in  1865 — needs  to 
be  told  how  much  the  Misty  Island  meant  to 
Alexander  Smith.  Every  August  he  went  there 
with  his  entire  household.  The  book  may  be 
said,  in  the  old  phrase,  to  provide  "  fine  confused 
feeding,"  for  the  writer  rambles  about,  here,  there, 
and  everywhere — the  two  things  absolutely  certain 
being  his  enjoyment  in  his  own  work,  and  the 
constant  power  to  make  his  readers  sh&re  in  that 
pleasure.  He  takes  well-nigh  a  hundred  pages  to 
bring  you  to  Skye,  but  what  of  that?  See  how 
he  entertains  you  by  the  way.     He  begins  with 


INTRODUCTION  xxxvii 

Edinburgh,  and  can  hardly  leave  it  for  love's  sake 
— passing  from  glowing  passage  to  passage  devoted 
to  the  grand  old  city.  The  "Mr.  M'lan"  of  A 
Summer  in  Skye  was,  as  is  well  known,  Smith's 
own  father-in-law.  Here  and  there  one  finds,  of 
necessity,  a  weird  strain  in  the  book.  The  air  is 
misty,  the  peat-reek  is  in  the  nostrils,  and,  whether 
the  reader  will  or  not,  his  mouth  is  never  long  free 
from  the  flavour  of  whisky.  Smith  recounts  that, 
for  a  wager,  he  himself  once  saw  a  Skye  man  drink 
a  bottle  in  ten  minutes.  These  islanders,  one 
feels,  are  a  strangely  self-respecting  people — as 
islanders  always  are.  The  past  is  as  often  re- 
ferred to,  brooded  over,  longed  for,  as  it  is  in 
Ossian.  Highland  lairds,  be  they  ever  so  poor, 
never  forget  their  lineage.  M'lan,  we  are  told, 
"  would  have  regarded  the  trader  worth  a  million 
as  nothing  better  than  a  scullion."  Besides  the 
picturesqueness  that  makes  the  book  delightful 
reading,  there  is  much  information  of  a  useful  kind 
regarding  sheep,  horses,  house-building,  and  so 
forth.  That  quiet  eye  of  his,  probably  seeming 
to  be  preoccupied  the  while,  took  in  everything. 
To  Smith  the  mighty  Cuchullins  were  not  merely 
"immense  protuberances,"  as  Dr.  Johnson,  with 
eyes  homesick  for  Fleet  Street,  called  them ;  they 
were  things  of  awe,  seeming,  themselves,  to  brood 
over  some  unutterable  woe.  The  tiniest  thatched 
cottage,  and  its  youngest  inhabitant — things  hardly 
possible  to  recognise  from  the  seat  of  a  motor  car 
— were  folded  affectionately  in  a  web  of  tender 
fancy,  and  recognised  as  objects  of  keen  and 
pathetic  human  interest.     On  such  a  hut  Smith 


xxxviii  INTRODUCTION 

passes  a  panegyric  which  no  reader  of  A  Summer 
in  Skye  is  likely  to  forget.  Subjects  of  all  sorts 
come  suddenly  on  the  scene,  pass  through  a  gay 
summer  atmosphere  of  the  mind,  and  enter,  in  due 
time,  sombre  twilights  that  have  taken  colourings 
from  the  thoughts  of  a  man  who  habitually  "  kept 
watch  o'er  man's  mortality."  For  Death  has 
always  a  haunting  charm  for  him,  as  myriad 
passages  both  in  his  verse  and  prose  eloquently 
witness.  There  is,  indeed,  scarcely  one  essay  in 
Dreamthorp  that  is  not  here  and  there  laden  with 
thoughts  of  death.  But  it  is  not  all  gloom  in 
Skye — far  from  it.  Visits  are  made  to  fairs,  and 
various  mansion-houses — old  buildings  steeped  in 
memories,  and  in  eerie,  as  well  as  lively,  traditions. 
Patiently  Smith  goes  through  the  islesman's  year 
with  you ;  carries  you  here  and  there  with  him, 
but  nowhere,  possibly,  without  adding  to  your 
pleasure  and  information.  If  you  are  in  a  position 
to  boast  that  you  have  nothing  to  learn,  you  will 
not  deny  that  on  common  things  he  throws  a  light 
and  glamour  that  make  for  newness.  "  I  am,"  he 
writes,  "  the  fool  of  association,  and  the  tree  under 
which  a  king  has  rested,  the  stone  on  which  a 
banner  was  planted  on  the  morning  of  some 
victorious  day,  the  house  in  which  some  great  man 
first  saw  the  light,  are  to  me  the  sacredest  things." 
Such  a  man  is  a  guide  worth  following  "  over  the 
sea  to  Skye  " — or  anywhere  else.  Naturally  there 
is  a  good  deal  about  the  Macdonalds — and  about 
Flora  Macdonald,  "noticeable  to  this  day  in 
history  walking  demurely  with  the  white  rose  in 
her  bosom."     The  chapter   "  In  a  Skye  Bothy " 


INTRODUCTION  xxxix 

is  one  of  unusual  interest.  As  for  the  civilisation 
he  had  left  behind  him,  he  thought  of  it  in  this 
way :  "  It  is  like  a  soldier's  stock,  it  makes  you 
carry  your  head  a  good  deal  higher,  makes  the 
angels  weep  a  little  more  at  your  fantastic  tricks, 
and  half  suffocates  you  the  while.  I  have  thrown 
it  away,  and  breathe  freely."  He  belonged  to 
what  he  called  "  the  motley  nation  of  Bohemians," 
and  the  irksome  forms  of  society  covered  him  only 
as  a  thin  and  semi-transparent  skin;  their  uni- 
formity troubled  him,  and  he  would  have  liked  to 
see  "  a  moral  game  law  passed  for  the  preservation 
of  the  wild  and  vagrant  feelings  of  human  nature." 
He  went  further,  and  boldly  asserted  that  no  man 
is  worth  much  who  is  not  something  of  a  vagabond. 
But  it  rains,  rains,  rains  in  Skye,  as  the  hotel 
visitors'  books  all  painfully  reiterate,  and  the 
"Bothy"  becomes  a  study  as  at  home,  out  of 
which  poems  emerge  under  the  title  of  Poems 
written  in  a  Skye  Bothy  (in  one  of  which,  oddly 
enough,  Smith  condescends  to  rhyme  "cracks" 
with  "  cataracts  "  ),  although  it  is  easy  to  arrive  at 
the  conclusion  that  the  verse  was  carried  to  Skye, 
half-finished,  for  a  rainy  day's  employment,  and, 
weather  favouring,  received  the  waited-for  gloss 
from  the  polisher's  hand. 

A  Summer  in  Skye  is  made  up  of  many  summers 
in  Skye.  The  book  is  no  mere  guide-book.  It  is 
of  no  use  to  people  who  are  content  to  "do" 
places.  It  is  filled  with,  and  redolent  of,  the  ways 
of  the  people,  the  play  of  the  sunshine,  the  weight 
of  the  clinging,  low-lying  clouds,  the  glamour  and 
romance  of  Skye.     As  such  it  will  be  more  enjoyed 


xl  INTRODUCTION 

at  home  by  those  who  can  recreate  for  themselves, 
out  of  such  materials,  the  glens,  the  narrowing  sea- 
arms  lit  by  a  crescent  moon,  the  swamps,  the  mists, 
the  mountains,  even  if  they  have  never  seen  the 
island,  than  by  those  who  rush  over  it,  with  brain, 
it  may  be,  made  barren  by  the  heat,  bustle,  and 
confined  outlook  of  what  is  called  a  successful 
business  career  (an  excellent  enough  thing  in  its 
own  little  way)  on  this  or  the  other  side  of  the 
Atlantic,  and  who  draw  a  long  bow  about  it  all 
ever  afterwards.  The  book  is  written  by  one  who 
made  haste  to  reach  Skye  as  each  autumn  came 
round,  and  who  was  inclined  to  hang  a  weeper  on 
his  cuff  at  the  home-coming.  But  he  makes  no 
such  haste  in  his  book.  As  it  took  a  hundred 
pages  to  convey  us  to  Skye,  he  is  consistent  in 
requiring  close  upon  a  hundred  to  bring  us  home 
again.  Here,  once  more,  we  are  ready  to  exclaim : 
Why  hurry  ?  we  are  in  excellent  company. 

Alexander  Smith's  only  novel,  Alfred  Hagarfs 
Household^  was  now  running  its  course  in  Good 
Words.  It  created  considerable  interest  both  in 
magazine  and  subsequent  book  form.  As  a  first 
attempt  its  author  was  well  entitled  to  regard  it  as 
a  success,  and  as  a  promise  of  future  efforts  in  the 
same  line.  I  have  only  as  yet  come  upon  one 
critic,  however,  who  has  had  the  courage  to  account 
it  "undoubtedly  his  greatest  work."  The  truth  is, 
Smith  had  not  large  constructive  ability,  and  he 
knew  it  himself.  He  loved  to  festoon  things ;  but 
the  porch,  the  trellis,  the  pergola,  he  preferred  not 
to  be  of  his  making.  Still,  the  story  deserved  its 
popularity,  and  its  author  was  meditating  another 


INTRODUCTION  xU 

tale,  when  the  illness,  from  which  he  never  really 
recovered,  fell  upon  him.  We  have  P.  P. 
Alexander's  word  for  it  that  the  new  story  was 
to  have  included  a  Scottish  element.  "  About  the 
very  last  time  I  dined  with  him,"  writes  Smith's 
friend,  "I  remember  retailing  a  highly  ludicrous 
scene  I  had  just  chanced  to  be  witness  of,  illus- 
trating the  fierce  theological  proclivities  of  the 
Scottish  carter ;  and  the  little  amusement  it  caused 
being  over,  I  generously  said,  'I  don't  mind 
making  you  a  present  of  that  for  your  novel, 
Smith?'  'Thank  you  for  nothing,  old  fellow!' 
with  base  ingratitude,  he  answered.  'I  spotted 
it  as  it  left  your  lips;  and  one  or  other  of  these 
fine  days,  perhaps,  you'll  see  it  in  print.'  This 
was,  however,  not  to  be." 

To  return  to  Alfred  Hagarfs  Household,  while 
it  must  be  admitted  that  it  had  nothing  in  it  of 
what  Scott  called  the  big  "  bow-wow  "  style,  it  was, 
nevertheless,  a  simple  tale  told  with  something  of 
the  charm  that  was  never  wholly  absent  from  any- 
thing its  author  wrote.  It  was,  in  fact,  largely  the 
story  of  his  own  life.  Kilmarnock  was  the 
Spiggleton,  Paisley  the  Greysley,  and  Glasgow 
the  Hawkhead  of  the  novel.  As  regards  the 
characters,  it  is  said  that  these  were  all  drawn  from 
the  circle  of  his  relations  or  friends.  Though  the 
novel  is  in  turn  tender,  fanciful,  humorous,  the 
air  is  cool  and  deliberate  throughout.  If  it  has 
not  the  heat  and  hurry,  it  has  also  none  of  the 
slovenliness,  the  forced  frivolity,  or  what  Tennyson 
called  the  "  dandy  pathos,"  of  much  of  our 
favourite  present-day  fiction.     It  moves  slowly,  but 


xlii  INTRODUCTION 

it  would  surely  be  a  mistake  to  say  that  in  any 
part  it  can  be  called  uninteresting,  although, 
probably,  the  pages  of  the  copy  that  does  service 
in  most  public  libraries  may  be  found  to  grow 
cleaner  as  the  story  proceeds.  This  means  much, 
but  the  reflection  that  rises  to  the  lips  does  not 
pass  in  the  direction  of  Alexander  Smith.  Poor 
Hagart,  a  pattern-designer,  has  a  good  deal  of 
human  nature  about  him.  In  the  expressive 
words  of  his  wife — he  was  always  lighting  all  his 
candles.  He  leapt  to  conclusions  which  were,  in 
reason,  miles  beyond  his  reach — full  of  buoyancy 
and  self-confidence.  A  large  part  of  his  philosophy 
of  life  came  forth  when  he  played  Polonius  to  his 
son,  and  said  among  other  things,  "If  you  turn 
tail,  the  world  runs  after  you  and  smites  you  hip 
and  thigh.  If  you  charge  the  world  boldly,  the 
chances  are  it  runs  away  and  allows  you  to  gather 
up  the  spoils."  Mrs.  Hagart  is  quiet,  dignified, 
sentimental.  Both  characters  are  well  drawn,  as 
are  also  the  M'Quarrie  girls  (John  said  he  could 
not  see  the  face  of  one  of  them  for  her  eyes  !)  and 
the  faithful  Martha.  But  the  greatest  piece  of 
work  in  the  book  is,  unquestionably,  Miss  Kate 
M'Quarrie.  How  that  strong,  stern,  self-suppress- 
ing, yet  deeply  afiectionate  old  woman  stands  out 
from  the  page  —  like  a  little  Vandyck !  How 
sombre,  moving,  and  powerful  is  the  record  of 
her  death !  Surely  in  this  Smith  excelled  himself. 
Whether  he  could  have  repeated  such  a  success  is 
doubtful.  If  longer  life  had  been  given  him,  he 
would  certainly  have  gone  on  with  novel-writing. 
And  there  is,  as  usual,  so  much  to  be  had  by  the 


INTRODUCTION  xliii 

way.  There  are  felicitous  insets  on  Milton,  on  the 
dawning  of  love,  on  poverty  and  prosperity,  on  Sir 
Thomas  Browne,  and  Jeremy  Taylor.  It  will  be 
noted,  however,  that  these  passages  are  all  in  the 
second  volume.  That  is  not  surprising,  for  the 
story  was  intended  to  be  only  half  its  length,  but 
was  so  well  liked  by  the  readers  of  Good  Words 
that  it  was  ultimately  extended,  and,  in  this  way, 
its  author  had  room — no  doubt  at  the  expense 
of  the  mere  tale  in  the  first  place — to  dilate  on 
favourite  subjects  after  his  own  charming  and 
desultory  manner. 

While  Alfred  Hagarfs  Household  concludes  the 
short  list  of  Alexander  Smith's  books,  it  by  no 
means  ends  the  record  of  his  literary  industry. 
He  did  a  considerable  amount  of  work  for  the 
Encyclopadia  Britannica,  Chambers^  Encyclopcedia, 
and  Mackenzie's  Biographical  Dictionary.  His 
was  the  "  Life  of  Cowper "  in  the  first  mentioned, 
and  he  edited  Burns  for  Messrs.  Macmillan.  His 
introductory  essay  has  been  well  thought  of  in 
high  quarters.  Room  for  one  quotation  from  it 
must  be  found :  "  To  the  wretched,  out  of  the 
Bible  there  is  no  such  solace  as  the  poetry  of 
Burns.  His  genius  comes  to  their  hovels,  their 
poor  bread  wetted  with  tears,  as  Howard  came  to 
the  strong  places  of  pestilence — irradiating,  con- 
soling; like  the  hearing  of  soft  tones,  like  the 
touches  of  tender  hands."  Smith  also  edited  John 
W.  S.  Hows's  Golden  Leaves  from  American  Poets. 
His  contributions  to  magazines  and  newspapers 
were  numerous.  Among  the  former  were  Black- 
wood, Macmillan,  Good  Words,  The  Argosy,  and 


xliv  INTRODUCTION 

The  Quiver:  among  the  latter,  the  Edinburgh 
Courafit,  the  London  Review^  the  Glasgow  Citizen, 
and  the  Caledonian  Mercury.  Each  year  as  the 
Royal  Scottish  Academy  opened  its  Exhibition  he 
furnished  an  account  of  it  to  the  Caledonian 
Mercury.  He  knew  many  of  the  artists  who 
helped  to  cover  the  walls  of  the  galleries  at  the 
Mound  in  those  days.  Special  mention  may  be 
made  of  Horatio  MaccuUoch,  who  lived  near  him 
at  Wardie,  and  who,  besides  being  a  "  sort  of  elder 
brother  to  him,"  was  related  to  his  wife.  But 
Smith  was  a  heretic,  for  he  held,  poor  man,  that 
the  landscapes  he  saw  from  his  window  at  Dream- 
thorp,  painted  by  no  greater  artists  than  Sunrise 
and  Sunset,  were  better  executed  "  than  those 
which  adorn  the  walls  of  the  Royal  Academy " ; 
and  we  know  that  many  artists,  nowadays,  say 
in  veiled  words  what  Whistler  said  in  unveiled 
language  regarding  Nature.  There  can  be  no 
manner  of  doubt  that  Alexander  Smith  hastened 
his  death  by  overwork.  He  himself  considered 
literary  work  the  most  exhausting  of  all  work,  and 
he  certainly  did  not  spare  his  powers.  His  last 
completed  effort  in  prose  was  the  essay  on  his 
friend,  Sydney  Dobell,  and  his  last  published  poem 
was  "  A  Spring  Chanson."  Both  of  these  appear 
in  Last  Leaves.  The  "  Chanson "  ends  with  a 
reference  to  the  blackbird's  song  in  May,  which, 
strangely  enough,  is  best  sung,  in  the  poet's  view, 
"to  happy  lovers  and  to  dying  men."  "A  Spring 
Chanson "  was  not,  however,  Smith's  very  last 
piece  of  work  in  verse.  At  the  time  of  his  death 
he  was  engaged  on  a  poem  entitled  "  Edinburgh." 


INTRODUCTION  xlv 

It  was  his  intention  to  give  it  rank  with  his 
"Glasgow,"  but  any  judge  may  see  from  the  draft 
of  the  stanzas  left  us  that  it  would  have  far 
exceeded  the  earlier  production  in  reach  and  in 
beauty.  It  is  only  a  fragment  as  we  have  it ;  still, 
there  are  intense  freshness  and  fitness  in  some  of 
its  descriptions. 

On  the  2oth  of  November  1866,  Alexander 
Smith  was  finally  laid  aside.  He  had  tasted  of 
life's  every  dish,  except  what  he  loved  to  call 
"  the  Covered  One  " — and  the  Hand  was  now  on 
the  cover !  His  illness  was  typhoid  fever,  com- 
plicated with  diphtheria.  All  that  was  possible  was 
done  by  his  physicians — Dr.  Malcolm  and  Dr. 
(afterwards  Sir  Robert)  Christison.  Times  of 
delirium  were  with  him  towards  the  end,  and  in 
these  he  babbled,  not  "  of  green  fields,"  but  of  his 
University  duties  (see  page  60)  and  of  those  he 
loved  and  was  to  leave  behind.  He  died  on  the 
5th  of  January  1867,  at  the  age  of  thirty-seven. 
"  Thirty  is  the  age  of  the  gods,"  he  had  written  in 
"  An  Essay  on  an  Old  Subject."  Like  Burns  and 
Byron,  he  was  old  at  thirty-seven — the  age  at  which 
all  three  died.  In  his  essays  Smith  liked  to  pose 
as  an  old  man,  yet  "pose"  is  scarcely  the  word  to 
use.  He  had  an  early  maturity.  His  death  was 
keenly  felt  by  his  friends,  and  no  wonder.  It  is 
seldom  that  a  man  is  singled  out  from  amongst  all 
his  fellows  and  written  of  as  Alexander  Smith  has 
been  by  Sheriff  Nicolson :  "  Of  all  the  men  whom 
I  have  known  that  drew  forth  love  as  well  as 
admiration,  Alexander  Smith  was  the  most  lovable. 
It  was  impossible  not  to  love  him,  as  impossible  as 


xlvi  INTRODUCTION 

it  was  to  provoke  him  to  do  or  say  an5rthing  mean 
or  unkind.  Unlike  many  whose  whole  goodness 
and  fine  sentiment  is  put  into  their  books,  his  life 
and  character  were  as  beautiful  as  anything  he 
wrote." 

There  is  no  more  beautiful  cemetery  in 
Edinburgh  than  Warriston.  The  Dean  may  have 
a  more  dignified  solemnity,  with  its  sentinel  yews, 
but  Warriston  heaves  the  green  but  marbled 
shoulders  of  God's  Acre  to  the  sun  and  to 
the  south.  From  its  heights  the  views  of 
Edinburgh  are  wonderfully  fine,  and  it  is  musical 
with  birds  that  help  to  keep  the  thoughts  above 
the  daisy-starred  grass  that  grows  and  withers  over 
the  silent  dead.  It  was  here  —  notwithstanding 
what  is  written  on  the  second  page  of  Dream- 
thorp —  that  the  body  of  Alexander  Smith  was 
laid.  The  burial-place  is  in  the  extreme  north-east 
corner  of  the  cemetery,  and  it  is  marked  by  a 
finely  decorated  lona  Cross,  bearing  the  words 
"Alexander  Smith,  Poet  and  Essayist."  The 
Cross  was  designed  by  his  friend  James  Drummond, 
R.S.A.,  but  Sir  J.  Noel  Paton,  R.S.A.,  had  also 
some  share  in  the  decoration.  The  bronze 
medallion  likeness  was  the  work  of  a  third 
friend— William  Brodie,  R.S.A. 

"Youth"  —  these  are  his  own  words — "is  a 
lyrical  poet,  middle  age  a  quiet  essayist,  fond  of 
recounting  his  experiences,  and  of  appending  a 
moral  to  every  incident."  "  Poet  and  Essayist ! " 
By  which  of  these  titles  will  Alexander  Smith  be 
the  longer  remembered?  Possibly  he  may  be 
equally  remembered  by  both.     Not  by  either,  say 


INTRODUCTION  xlvii 

some — the  kind  of  people,  perhaps,  who  ask  you 
to  take  their  word  for  it  that  George  Eliot  was  no 
novehst,  and  Lowell  no  poet.  In  spite  of  this,  it 
will  doubtless  be  held  against  all  odds  by  many, 
that  he  was  more  than  what  he  called  a  "  Squatter  " 
on  the  sacred  mount  of  Parnassus.  There  is  little 
prose  in  his  poetry,  but  his  prose  is  filled  with 
poetry.  For  this  reason  it  may  be  that  "Poet- 
Essayist"  might  better  serve  than  "Poet  and 
Essayist."  Let  it  be  remembered  that  he  himself 
conceived  of  the  essayist  as  "a  kind  of  poet  in 
prose"  as  well  as  "a  chartered  libertine,  and  a  law 
unto  himself."  It  seems  a  safe  conclusion  that 
lines  with  so  much  magic  in  them — and  these  are 
many — and  passages  that  appear,  when  detached 
from  their  fellows,  to  be  equal  to  the  work  of  the 
greatest  of  writers — and  these  are  not  few — must 
take  long  to  die.  From  time  to  time  they  will 
force  themselves  on  the  attention,  belonging  as 
they  do  to  an  insistent  order,  and  he  who  said,  "  To 
be  occasionally  quoted  is  the  only  fame  I  care  for," 
may  well  sleep  sound  in  the  faith  that  his  desire 
has  been  granted. 

It  will  not  do  to  forget  that  these  pages  profess 
to  form,  in  some  sort,  an  Introduction  to  one  of 
the  most  delightful  books  of  essays  a  man  may 
place  on  his  shelf,  and  that,  therefore,  it  is  as  an 
essayist  that  Alexander  Smith  specially  concerns 
us  here.  In  these  circumstances  a  few  more  words 
seem  necessary,  and  anything  said  must  be  regarded 
as  applying  equally  to  the  eleven  essays — most  of 
them  of  great  merit — that  are  included  in  the 
volume  known  as  Last  Leaves. 


xlviii  INTRODUCTION 

Alexander  Smith  is  not  a  builder  of  the 
ponderous  essay.  He  has  neither  muscle  nor 
mallet  for  that.  Indeed,  he  frankly  avows  that  it 
is  not  the  essayist's  duty  to  inform,  to  build  path- 
ways through  metaphysical  morasses,  to  cancel 
abuses."  It  is  quite  true  also  that  he  has  no 
"finger  of  scorn  to  point  at  anything  under  the 
sun ; "  that  he  has  a  hearty  "  Amen  "  for  every  good 
wish ;  and  that,  in  most  unpleasant  cases,  he  leans 
to  a  verdict  of  "  Not  Proven."  He  may  not  thus 
commend  himself  to  those  who  always,  and  easily, 
take  a  side,  but  to  others  these  very  things  count 
for  much.  Although  he  tells  us  frankly,  in  the 
first  essay  in  Dreamthorp,  that  he  long  ago  lost  the 
power  of  following  a  sermon,  and  although  he  is 
reticent,  generally,  on  the  subject  of  religion,  surely 
the  man  who  wrote  "  A  Boy's  Poem,"  the  essay  on 
"Christmas,"  the  eloquent  and  penetrative  para- 
graphs on  the  Lyra  Germanica  in  "  A  Shelf  in  my 
Bookcase,"  and  the  exquisite  closing  passage  of 
"  An  Essay  on  an  Old  Subject,"  cannot  be  called 
irreligious.  It  is  admitted  that  there  is  suggestion 
rather  than  statement  in  his  writings ;  but  we  must 
take  the  man  as  we  find  him.  For  the  rest,  we 
have  seen  that  he  wanders  about  with  open  eyes, 
and  a  heart  that  makes  fitting  response  to  his 
vision.  The  world,  he  feels,  "is  everywhere 
whispering  essays,  and  one  need  only  be  the  world's 
amanuensis."  In  accepting  the  conditions,  and 
having  hearing  and  attentive  ears,  he  became  a 
true  essayist.  His  fancy  is  ever  on  the  alert.  Old 
things  become  new  by  simply  turning  them  about, 
although,  in  truth,  he  never  seems  specially  to  aim 


INTRODUCTION  xlix 

at  novelty.  On  the  nail  of  a  cottage  door  he  could 
"  hang  the  mantle  of  his  thought,  heavily  brocaded 
with  the  gold  of  rhetoric."  He  weaves  together 
what  seem,  to  the  cold  reason,  to  be  things  remote 
from  each  other. 

Granted  that  he  has  not  the  great  imagination 
which  Tennyson,  Mrs.  Browning,  and  even  his 
best  admirers  deny  him,  he  has  the  quality — call 
it  what  you  will — that  he  describes  in  these  words : 
"  Imagination  lights  the  torch  of  joy,  it  deepens 
the  carmine  on  the  sleek  cheek  of  the  girl,  it  makes 
wine  sparkle,  makes  music  speak,  gives  rays  to  the 
rising  sun."  Of  that  kind  he  has  abundance.  His 
is  the  brooding  mood  that  gently,  and  almost 
imperceptibly,  draws  out  of  a  subject  its  best.  He 
might  well  have  said,  in  the  language  of  another : 

"  Tax  not  my  sloth,  that  I 

Fold  my  arms  beside  the  brook : 
Each  cloud  that  floated  in  the  sky 
Writes  a  letter  in  my  book." 

In  his  own  way,  as  he  writes  of  Montaigne,  he  too 
"  pursues  vagrant  lines  of  thought,"  and  enlists  your 
changing  interest  ere  you  are  aware ;  but  he  never 
borrows  the  ermine  gown  in  order  to  write  like 
Bacon.  He  throws  the  rein,  as  he  says,  on  the 
neck  of  his  whim,  and  you  would  not  for  the  world 
stop  his  pace.  The  phrase  is  his  own,  but  it  is 
faulty  in  so  far  as  it  suggests  speed,  for  there  is  no 
quieter  essayist  than  Alexander  Smith.  His  richest 
passages  unroll,  as  it  were,  to  slow  music.  His 
wisdom — and  he  has  much — is  like  flowing  water. 
You  are  never  preached  at,  but  you  feel  that  your 
d 


1  INTRODUCTION 

heart  has  been  bettered  by  a  touch  you  are  scarcely 
conscious  of  before  it  is  gone. 

As  has  already  been  said,  the  Past  tyrannises 
over  him !  Yesterday  to  him  "  is  richer  far  than 
fifty  years  to  come."  He  was,  as  we  have  seen, 
something  of  a  vagabond  withal — in  the  gentler 
sense  of  the  word.  No  man  could  write  as  he  has 
done  of  Shakspere's  As  You  Like  It  without 
being  so.  He  chafed  under  the  drill  of  what  he 
called  "  Adjutant  Fashion  " — an  "  awful  Martinet," 
who  is,  as  he  conceived,  slowly  killing  us  by  the 
everlasting  pother  over  things  not  worth  the  falling 
of  an  eyelid.  Infinitely  rather  would  he  have  been 
waiter  behind  Shakspere's  chair  at  the  Mermaid, 
than  have  dined  with  what  is  termed  Royalty  every 
day  of  his  life.  The  last  words  of  Dreamtfiorp 
are  characteristic :  "  Suppose  we  try  '  standing  at 
ease '  for  a  little."  In  following  the  suggestion  we 
may  be  sure  that  the  harvest  of  a  quiet  eye,  which 
is  our  own,  will  be  a  better  portion  than  fussy  futil- 
ities, in  the  observance  of  which  we  so  carefully 
follow  each  other.  Surely,  to  the  wise,  the  fact  that 
we  are  so  soon  to  bid  farewell  to  life  is  an  argu- 
ment in  favour  of  being  ourselves  while  it  lasts. 
Stevenson  taught  us  many  things  in  his  Apology 
for  Idlers,  but  no  whit  better  than  did  Alexander 
Smith — who  was  called  Stevenson's  "forerunner" 
by  James  Ashcroft  Noble  —  in  his  essay  "On 
Vagabonds."  You  will  remember,  in  this  connec- 
tion, his  boast,  in  Dreamthorp,  that  he  had  "the 
satisfaction  of  differing  from  the  world  as  to  the 
meaning  of  "idleness."  It  is  also  worth  re- 
membering that  his   sympathy  with   Hawthorne's 


INTRODUCTION  li 

Seven  Vagabonds  was  so  great  that  he  called  it 
"  almost  the  most  exquisite  thing  which  has  flowed 
from  its  author's  pen."  How  continually,  too,  as 
already  said,  is  the  ending  of  life  kept  in  view : 
indeed,  he  plays  with  Death  "  as  Hamlet  plays  with 
Yorick's  skull,"  being  assured  that  "nothing 
interests  men  so  much  as  Death." 

"That  subtle  sense  of  death 
That  sighs  through  all  our  happy  days,  that  shakes 
All  raptures  of  our  breath  " 

is  always  present,  and  has  a  singularly  steadying 
influence.  To  my  mind,  Alexander  Smith  has  few 
tedious  pages,  and  I  except  nothing  that  he  has 
written.  He  was  simply  incapable  of  writing  with 
a  dull  pen.  Colour  and  radiance  are  his  in  no 
common  degree.  How  smoothly  do  these  essays 
of  his  move  to  their  conclusions  !  How  little  there 
is  of  the  "  brewer's  cart  upon  the  stones  " — to  use 
Ben  Jonson's  phrase  —  a  sound  which  not  in- 
frequently accompanies  wise  and  witty  writings. 
What  is  it,  after  all,  that  causes  a  book  to  endure  ? 
Many  things,  no  doubt.  Yet  it  may  be  said  of 
this  writer,  at  least,  that  it  is  his  charm  that  will 
prevail  against  time,  and  of  the  chief  spices  that 
embalm  literature,  the  chiefest  of  all  is  charm. 

But  some  may  ask  such  questions  as  these :  Is 
Alexander  Smith's  fame  not  a  thing  of  the  past? 
Have  not  other  men  crowds  of  admirers,  while  he 
has  but  few  ?  I  do  not  believe  that  either  of  these 
questions  can  to-day  be  answered  in  an  unqualified 
affirmative ;  but  even  if  we  admit  that  he  has  been 
to  a  large  degree  crowded  out  of  popular  favour, 


Hi  INTRODUCTION 

the  reply  may  well  be :  If  his  is  a  little  clan,  yet  it 
is  loyal.  Take  it  in  his  own  words  :  "  If  devoted- 
ness  of  attachment  is  in  these  matters  to  be  con- 
sidered and  valued,  the  love  of  six  readers  of  the 
unpopular  poet  may  outweigh  the  love  of  a  hundred 
readers  of  the  popular  one.  In  the  old  Scottish 
days,  'The  King  over  the  water'  was  pledged  far 
seldomer;  but  when  pledged,  with  a  thousand 
times  more  enthusiasm,  than  was  ever  King 
George." 

J.H. 

March  1906, 


From  the  Medallion  at  Warriston  Cemetery  by  the 
late  James   Drummond,   R.S.A. 


[OHTI^AV 


DREAMTHORP. 

IT  matters  not  to  relate  how  or  when  I  became 
a  denizen  of  Dreamthorp ;  it  will  be  sufficient 
to  say  that  I  am  not  a  born  native,  but  that  I 
came  to  reside  in  it  a  good  while  ago  now.  The 
several  towns  and  villages  in  which,  in  my  time, 
I  have  pitched  a  tent  did  not  please,  for  one 
obscure  reason  or  another :  this  one  was  too  large, 
t'other  too  small ;  but  when,  on  a  summer  evening 
about  the  hour  of  eight,  I  first  beheld  Dreamthorp, 
with  its  westward-looking  windows  painted  by 
sunset,  its  children  playing  in  the  single  straggling 
street,  the  mothers  knitting  at  the  open  doors, 
the  fathers  standing  about  in  long  white  blouses, 
chatting  or  smoking ;  the  great  tower  of  the 
ruined  castle  rising  high  into  the  rosy  air,  with  a 
whole  troop  of  swallows — by  distance  made  as 
small  as  gnats — skimming  about  its  rents  and 
fissures ; — when  I  first  beheld  all  this,  I  felt 
instinctively  that  my  knapsack  might  be  taken  off 
my  shoulders,  that  my  tired  feet  might  wander  no 
more,  that  at  last,  on  the  planet,  I  had  found  a 
home.  From  that  evening  I  have  dwelt  here,  and 
the  only  journey  I  am  like  now  to  make,  is  the 
I 


2  DREAMTHORP 

very  inconsiderable  one,  so  far  at  least  as  distance 
is  concerned,  from  the  house  in  which  I  live  to 
the  graveyard  beside  the  ruined  castle.  There, 
with  the  former  inhabitants  of  the  place,  I  trust  to 
sleep  quietly  enough,  and  nature  will  draw  over 
our  heads  her  coverlet  of  green  sod,  and  tenderly 
tuck  us  in,  as  a  mother  her  sleeping  ones,  so  that 
no  sound  from  the  world  shall  ever  reach  us,  and 
no  sorrow  trouble  us  any  more. 

The  village  stands  far  inland ;  and  the  streams 
that  trot  through  the  soft  green  valleys  all  about 
have  as  little  knowledge  of  the  sea,  as  the  three- 
years'  child  of  the  storms  and  passions  of  manhood. 
The  surrounding  country  is  smooth  and  green, 
full  of  undulations;  and  pleasant  country  roads 
strike  through  it  in  every  direction,  bound  for 
distant  towns  and  villages,  yet  in  no  hurry  to 
reach  them.  On  these  roads  the  lark  in  summer 
is  continually  heard ;  nests  are  plentiful  in  the 
hedges  and  dry  ditches ;  and  on  the  grassy  banks, 
and  at  the  feet  of  the  bowed  dikes,  the  blue-eyed 
speedwell  smiles  its  benison  on  the  passing  way- 
farer. On  these  roads  you  may  walk  for  a  year 
and  encounter  nothing  more  remarkable  than  the 
country  cart,  troops  of  tawny  children  from  the 
woods,  laden  with  primroses,  and  at  long  intervals 
— for  people  in  this  district  live  to  a  ripe  age — a 
black  funeral  creeping  in  from  some  remote 
hamlet;  and  to  this  last  the  people  reverently 
doff  their  hats  and  stand  aside.  Death  does  not 
walk  about  here  often,  but  when  he  does,  he  re- 
ceives as  much  respect  as  the  squire  himself. 
Everything  round  one  is  unhurried,  quiet,  moss- 


DREAMTHORP  3 

grown,  and  orderly.  Season  follows  in  the  track 
of  season,  and  one  year  can  hardly  be  distinguished 
from  another.  Time  should  be  measured  here  by 
the  silent  dial,  rather  than  by  the  ticking  clock, 
or  by  the  chimes  of  the  church.  Dreamthorp  can 
boast  of  a  respectable  antiquity,  and  in  it  the 
trade  of  the  builder  is  unknown.  Ever  since  I 
remember,  not  a  single  stone  has  been  laid  on  the 
top  of  another.  The  castle,  inhabited  now  by 
jackdaws  and  starlings,  is  old  ;  the  chapel  which 
adjoins  it  is  older  still ;  and  the  lake  behind  both, 
and  in  which  their  shadows  sleep,  is,  I  suppose,  as 
old  as  Adam.  A  fountain  in  the  market-place, 
all  mouths  and  faces  and  curious  arabesques — 
as  dry,  however,  as  the  castle  moat — has  a  tradi- 
tion connected  with  it ;  and  a  great  noble  riding 
through  the  street  one  day  several  hundred  years 
ago,  was  shot  from  a  window  by  a  man  whom  he 
had  injured.  The  death  of  this  noble  is  the 
chief  link  which  connects  the  place  with  authentic 
history.  The  houses  are  old,  and  remote  dates 
may  yet  be  deciphered  on  the  stones  above  the 
doors ;  the  apple  trees  are  mossed  and  ancient ; 
countless  generations  of  sparrows  have  bred  in 
the  thatched  roofs,  and  thereon  have  chirped  out 
their  lives.  In  every  room  of  the  place  men  have 
been  born,  men  have  died.  On  Dreamthorp 
centuries  have  fallen,  and  have  left  no  more  trace 
than  have  last  winter's  snowflakes.  This  common- 
place sequence  and  flowing  on  of  life  is  im- 
measurably affecting.  That  winter  morning  when 
Charles  lost  his  head  in  front  of  the  banqueting- 
hall  of  his  own  palace,  the  icicles  hung  from  the 


4  DREAMTHORP 

eaves  of  the  houses  here,  and  the  clown  kicked 
the  snowballs  from  his  clouted  shoon,  and  thought 
but  of  his  supper  when,  at  three  o'clock,  the  red 
sun  set  in  the  purple  mist.  On  that  Sunday  in 
June  while  Waterloo  was  going  on,  the  gossips, 
after  morning  service,  stood  on  the  country  roads 
discussing  agricultural  prospects,  without  the 
slightest  suspicion  that  the  day  passing  over  their 
heads  would  be  a  famous  one  in  the  calendar. 
Battles  have  been  fought,  kings  have  died,  history 
has  transacted  itself;  but,  all  unheeding  and  un- 
touched, Dreamthorp  has  watched  apple  trees 
redden,  and  wheat  ripen,  and  smoked  its  pipe, 
and  quaffed  its  mug  of  beer,  and  rejoiced  over  its 
new-born  children,  and  with  proper  solemnity 
carried  its  dead  to  the  churchyard.  As  I  gaze  on 
the  village  of  my  adoption,  I  think  of  many  things 
very  far  removed,  and  seem  to  get  closer  to  them. 
The  last  setting  sun  that  Shakspeare  saw  reddened 
the  windows  here,  and  struck  warmly  on  the  faces 
of  the  hinds  coming  home  from  the  fields.  The 
mighty  storm  that  raged  while  Cromwell  lay  a- 
dying  made  all  the  oak  woods  groan  round  about 
here,  and  tore  the  thatch  from  the  very  roofs  I 
gaze  upon.  When  I  think  of  this,  I  can  almost, 
so  to  speak,  lay  my  hand  on  Shakspeare  and  on 
Cromwell.  These  poor  walls  were  contemporaries 
of  both,  and  I  find  something  affecting  in  the 
thought.  The  mere  soil  is,  of  course,  far  older 
than  either,  but  it  does  not  touch  one  in  the  same 
way.  A  wall  is  the  creation  of  a  human  hand,  the 
soil  is  not. 

This  place  suits  my  whim,  and  I  like  it  better 


DREAMTHORP  5 

year  after  year.  As  with  everything  else,  since  I 
began  to  love  it  I  find  it  gradually  growing 
beautiful.  Dreamthorp  —  a  castle,  a  chapel,  a 
lake,  a  straggling  strip  of  grey  houses,  with  a  blue 
film  of  smoke  over  all — lies  embosomed  in  emerald. 
Summer,  with  its  daisies,  runs  up  to  every  cottage 
door.  From  the  little  height  where  I  am  now 
sitting,  I  see  it  beneath  me.  Nothing  could  be 
more  peaceful.  The  wind  and  the  birds  fly  over 
it.  A  passing  sunbeam  makes  brilliant  a  white 
gable-end,  and  brings  out  the  colours  of  the 
blossomed  apple  tree  beyond,  and  disappears.  I 
see  figures  in  the  street,  but  hear  them  not.  The 
hands  on  the  church  clock  seem  always  pointing 
to  one  hour.  Time  has  fallen  asleep  in  the 
afternoon  sunshine.  I  make  a  frame  of  my 
fingers,  and  look  at  my  picture.  On  the  walls  of 
the  next  Academy's  Exhibition  will  hang  nothing 
half  so  beautiful ! 

My  village  is,  I  think,  a  special  favourite  of 
summer's.  Every  window-sill  in  it  she  touches 
with  colour  and  fragrance ;  everywhere  she  wakens 
the  drowsy  murmurs  of  the  hives ;  every  place 
she  scents  with  apple  blossom.  Traces  of  her 
hand  are  to  be  seen  on  the  weir  beside  the 
ruined  mill ;  and  even  the  canal,  along  which  the 
barges  come  and  go,  has  a  great  white  water-lily 
asleep  on  its  olive-coloured  face.  Never  was 
velvet  on  a  monarch's  robe  so  gorgeous  as  the 
green  mosses  that  be-ruff  the  roofs  of  farm  and 
cottage,  when  the  sunbeam  slants  on  them  and 
goes.  The  old  road  out  towards  the  common, 
and  the   hoary  dikes  that  might  have  been  built 


6  DREAMTHORP 

in  the  reign  of  Alfred,  have  not  been  forgotten  by 
the  generous  adorning  season ;  for  every  fissure 
has  its  mossy  cushion,  and  the  old  blocks  them- 
selves are  washed  by  the  loveliest  grey-green 
lichens  in  the  world,  and  the  large  loose  stones 
lying  on  the  ground  have  gathered  to  themselves 
the  peacefuUest  mossy  coverings.  Some  of  these 
have  not  been  disturbed  for  a  century.  Summer 
has  adorned  my  village  as  gaily,  and  taken  as 
much  pleasure  in  the  task,  as  the  people  of  old, 
when  Elizabeth  was  queen,  took  in  the  adornment 
of  the  Maypole  against  a  summer  festival.  And, 
just  think,  not  only  Dreamthorp,  but  every 
English  village  she  has  made  beautiful  after  one 
fashion  or  another — making  vivid  green  the  hill 
slope  on  which  straggling  white  Welsh  hamlets 
hang  right  opposite  the  sea;  drowning  in  apple 
blossom  the  red  Sussex  ones  in  the  fat  valley. 
And  think,  once  more,  every  spear  of  grass  in 
England  she  has  touched  with  a  livelier  green; 
the  crest  of  every  bird  she  has  burnished ;  every 
old  wall  between  the  four  seas  has  received  her 
mossy  and  licheny  attentions;  every  nook  in 
every  forest  she  has  sown  with  pale  flowers,  every 
marsh  she  has  dashed  with  the  fires  of  the  marigold. 
And  in  the  wonderful  night  the  moon  knows, 
she  hangs — the  planet  on  which  so  many  millions 
of  us  fight,  and  sin,  and  agonise,  and  die — a 
sphere  of  glow-worm  light. 

Having  discoursed  so  long  about  Dreamthorp, 
it  is  but  fair  that  I  should  now  introduce  you  to 
her  lions.  These  are,  for  the  most  part,  of  a 
commonplace  kind;  and  I  am  afraid  that,  if  you 


DREAMTHORP  7 

wish  to  find  romance  in  them,  you  must  bring  it 
with  you.  I  might  speak  of  the  old  church-tower, 
or  of  the  churchyard  beneath  it,  in  which  the 
village  holds  its  dead,  each  resting-place  marked 
by  a  simple  stone,  on  which  is  inscribed  the 
name  and  age  of  the  sleeper,  and  a  Scripture  text 
beneath,  in  which  live  our  hopes  of  immortality. 
But,  on  the  whole,  perhaps  it  will  be  better  to 
begin  with  the  canal,  which  wears  on  its  olive- 
coloured  face  the  big  white  water-lily  already 
chronicled. 

Such  a  secluded  place  is  Dreamthorp  that  the 
railway  does  not  come  near,  and  the  canal  is  the 
only  thing  that  connects  it  with  the  world.  It 
stands  high,  and  from  it  the  undulating  country 
may  be  seen  stretching  away  into  the  grey  of 
distance,  with  hills  and  woods,  and  stains  of 
smoke  which  mark  the  sites  of  villages.  Every 
now  and  then  a  horse  comes  staggering  along 
the  towing-path,  trailing  a  sleepy  barge  filled  with 
merchandise.  A  quiet,  indolent  life  these  barge- 
men lead  in  the  summer  days.  One  lies  stretched 
at  his  length  on  the  sun-heated  plank ;  his  comrade 
sits  smoking  in  the  little  dog-hutch,  which  I 
suppose  he  calls  a  cabin.  Silently  they  come  and 
go ;  silently  the  wooden  bridge  lifts  to  let  them 
through.  The  horse  stops  at  the  bridge-house 
for  a  drink,  and  there  I  like  to  talk  a  little  with 
the  men.  They  serve  instead  of  a  newspaper, 
and  retail  with  great  willingness  the  news  they 
have  picked  up  in  their  progress  from  town  to 
town.  I  am  told  they  sometimes  marvel  who 
the    old    gentleman   is   who   accosts   them   from 


8  DREAMTHORP 

beneath  a  huge  umbrella  in  the  sun,  and  that 
they  think  him  either  very  wise  or  very  foolish. 
Not  in  the  least  unnatural !  We  are  great  friends, 
I  believe — evidence  of  which  they  occasionally 
exhibit  by  requesting  me  to  disburse  a  trifle  for 
drink-money.  This  canal  is  a  great  haunt  of 
mine  of  an  evening.  The  water  hardly  invites 
one  to  bathe  in  it,  and  a  delicate  stomach  might 
suspect  the  flavour  of  the  eels  caught  therein ; 
yet,  to  my  thinking,  it  is  not  in  the  least  destitute 
of  beauty.  A  barge  trailing  up  through  it  in  the 
sunset  is  a  pretty  sight ;  and  the  heavenly  crimsons 
and  purples  sleep  quite  lovingly  upon  its  glossy 
ripples.  Nor  does  the  evening  star  disdain  it, 
for  as  I  walk  along  I  see  it  mirrored  therein  as 
clearly  as  in  the  waters  of  the  Mediterranean 
itself. 

The  old  castle  and  chapel  already  alluded  to 
are,  perhaps,  to  a  stranger,  the  points  of  attraction 
in  Dreamthorp.  Back  from  the  houses  is  the 
lake,  on  the  green  sloping  banks  of  which,  with 
broken  windows  and  tombs,  the  ruins  stand.  As 
it  is  noon,  and  the  weather  is  warm,  let  us  go  and 
sit  on  a  turret.  Here,  on  these  very  steps,  as  old 
ballads  tell,  a  queen  sat  once,  day  after  day, 
looking  southward  for  the  light  of  returning 
spears.  I  bethink  me  that  yesterday,  no  farther 
gone,  I  went  to  visit  a  consumptive  shoemaker; 
seated  here  I  can  single  out  his  very  house,  nay, 
the  very  window  of  the  room  in  which  he  is  lying. 
On  that  straw  roof  might  the  raven  alight,  and 
flap  his  sable  wings.  There,  at  this  moment,  is 
the  supreme  tragedy  being  enacted.     A  woman 


DREAMTHORP  9 

is  weeping  there,  and  little  children  are  looking 
on  with  a  sore  bewilderment.  Before  nightfall 
the  poor  peaked  face  of  the  bowed  artisan  will 
have  gathered  its  ineffable  peace,  and  the  widow 
will  be  led  away  from  the  bedside  by  the  tender- 
ness of  neighbours,  and  the  cries  of  the  orphan 
brood  will  be  stilled.  And  yet  this  present 
indubitable  suffering  and  loss  does  not  touch  me 
like  the  sorrow  of  the  woman  of  the  ballad,  the 
phantom  probably  of  a  minstrel's  brain.  The 
shoemaker  will  be  forgotten — I  shall  be  forgotten ; 
and  long  after  visitors  will  sit  here  and  look  out 
on  the  landscape  and  murmur  the  simple  lines. 
But  why  do  death  and  dying  obtrude  themselves 
at  the  present  moment? 

On  the  turret  opposite,  about  the  distance  of 
a  gunshot,  is  as  pretty  a  sight  as  eye  could  wish 
to  see.  Two  young  people,  strangers  apparently, 
have  come  to  visit  the  ruin.  Neither  the  ballad 
queen,  nor  the  shoemaker  down  yonder,  whose 
respirations  are  getting  shorter  and  shorter,  touches 
them  in  the  least.  They  are  merry  and  happy, 
and  the  greybeard  turret  has  not  the  heart  to 
thrust  a  foolish  moral  upon  them.  They  would 
not  thank  him  if  he  did,  I  daresay.  Perhaps 
they  could  not  understand  him.  Time  enough ! 
Twenty  years  hence  they  will  be  able  to  sit  down 
at  his  feet,  and  count  griefs  with  him,  and  tell 
him  tale  for  tale.  Human  hearts  get  ruinous  in 
so  much  less  time  than  stone  walls  and  towers. 
See,  the  young  man  has  thrown  himself  down  at 
the  girl's  feet  on  a  little  space  of  grass.  In  her 
scarlet  cloak  she  looks  like  a  blossom  springing  out 


lo  DREAMTHORP 

of  a  crevice  on  the  ruined  steps.  He  gives  her  a 
flower,  and  she  bows  her  face  down  over  it  almost 
to  her  knees.  What  did  the  flower  say  ?  Is  it  to 
hide  a  blush  ?  He  looks  delighted ;  and  I  almost 
fancy  I  see  a  proud  colour  on  his  brow.  As  I 
gaze,  these  young  people  make  for  me  a  perfect 
idyl.  The  generous,  ungrudging  sun,  the  melan- 
choly ruin,  decked,  like  mad  Lear,  with  the  flowers 
and  ivies  of  forgetfulness  and  grief,  and  between 
them,  sweet  and  evanescent,  human  truth  and 
love ! 

Love ! — does  it  yet  walk  the  world,  or  is  it  im- 
prisoned in  poems  and  romances?  Has  not  the 
circulating  library  become  the  sole  home  of  the 
passion?  Is  love  not  become  the  exclusive  pro- 
perty of  novelists  and  playwrights,  to  be  used  by 
them  only  for  professional  purposes?  Surely,  if 
the  men  I  see  are  lovers,  or  ever  have  been  lovers, 
they  would  be  nobler  than  they  are.  The  know- 
ledge that  he  is  beloved  should — must  m.ake  a  man 
tender,  gentle,  upright,  pure.  While  yet  a  youngster 
in  a  jacket,  I  can  remember  falling  desperately  in 
love  with  a  young  lady  several  years  my  senior, — 
after  the  fashion  of  youngsters  in  jackets.  Could 
I  have  fibbed  in  these  days?  Could  I  have 
betrayed  a  comrade  ?  Could  I  have  stolen  eggs  or 
callow  young  from  the  nest  ?  Could  I  have  stood 
quietly  by  and  seen  the  weak  or  the  maimed 
bullied  ?  Nay  verily !  In  these  absurd  days  she 
lighted  up  the  whole  world  for  me.  To  sit  in  the 
same  room  with  her  was  like  the  happiness  of  per- 
petual holiday ;  when  she  asked  me  to  run  a  message 
for  her,  or  to  do  any,  the  slightest,  service  for  her, 


DREAMTHORP  u 

I  felt  as  if  a  patent  of  nobility  were  conferred  on 
me.  I  kept  my  passion  to  myself,  like  a  cake,  and 
nibbled  it  in  private.  Juliet  was  several  years  my 
senior,  and  had  a  lover — was,  in  point  of  fact, 
actually  engaged;  and,  in  looking  back,  I  can 
remember  I  was  too  much  in  love  to  feel  the 
slightest  twinge  of  jealousy.  I  remember  also 
seeing  Romeo  for  the  first  time,  and  thinking  him 
a  greater  man  than  Caesar  or  Napoleon.  The 
worth  I  credited  him  with,  the  cleverness,  the 
goodness,  the  everything !  He  awed  me  by  his 
manner  and  bearing.  He  accepted  that  girl's  love 
coolly  and  as  a  matter  of  course :  it  put  him  no 
more  about  than  a  crown  and  sceptre  puts  about  a 
king.  What  I  would  have  given  my  life  to  possess 
— being  only  fourteen,  it  was  not  much  to  part 
with  after  all — he  wore  lightly,  as  he  wore  his 
gloves  or  his  cane.  It  did  not  seem  a  bit  too 
good  for  him.  His  self-possession  appalled  me. 
If  I  had  seen  him  take  the  sun  out  of  the 
sky,  and  put  it  into  his  breeches'  pocket,  I  don't 
think  I  should  have  been  in  the  least  degree 
surprised. 

Well,  years  after,  when  I  had  discarded  my 
passion  with  my  jacket,  I  have  assisted  this  middle- 
aged  Romeo  home  from  a  roystering  wine-party, 
and  heard  him  hiccup  out  his  marital  annoyances, 
with  the  strangest  remembrances  of  old  times,  and 
the  strangest  deductions  therefrom.  Did  that  man 
with  the  idiotic  laugh  and  the  blurred  utterance 
ever  love  ?  Was  he  ever  capable  of  loving  ?  I 
protest  I  have  my  doubts.  But  where  are  my 
young  people?      Gone!    So  it   is   always.      We 


12  DREAMTHORP 

begin  to  moralise  and  look  wise,  and  Beauty,  who 
is  something  of  a  coquette,  and  of  an  exacting  turn 
of  mind,  and  likes  attentions,  gets  disgusted  with 
our  wisdom  or  our  stupidity,  and  goes  off  in  a 
huff.     Let  the  baggage  go  ! 

The  ruined  chapel  adjoins  the  ruined  castle  on 
which  I  am  now  sitting,  and  is  evidently  a  building 
of  much  older  date.  It  is  a  mere  shell  now.  It 
is  quite  roofless,  ivy  covers  it  in  part;  the  stone 
tracery  of  the  great  western  window  is  yet  intact, 
but  the  coloured  glass  is  gone  with  the  splendid 
vestments  of  the  abbot,  the  fuming  incense,  the 
chanting  choirs,  and  the  patient,  sad-eyed  monks, 
who  muttered  Aves,  shrived  guilt,  and  illuminated 
missals.  Time  was  when  this  place  breathed 
actual  benedictions,  and  was  a  home  of  active 
peace.  At  present  it  is  visited  only  by  the 
stranger,  and  delights  but  the  antiquary.  The 
village  people  have  so  little  respect  for  it,  that 
they  do  not  even  consider  it  haunted.  There  are 
several  tombs  in  the  interior  bearing  knights' 
escutcheons,  which  time  has  sadly  defaced.  The 
dust  you  stand  upon  is  noble.  Earls  have  been 
brought  here  in  dinted  mail  from  battle,  and  earls' 
wives  from  the  pangs  of  child-bearing.  The  last 
trumpet  will  break  the  slumber  of  a  right  honour- 
able company.  One  of  the  tombs — the  most 
perfect  of  all  in  point  of  preservation — I  look  at 
often,  and  try  to  conjecture  what  it  commemorates. 
With  all  my  fancies,  I  can  get  no  further  than  the 
old  story  of  love  and  death.  There,  on  the  slab, 
the  white  figures  sleep;  marble  hands,  folded  in 
prayer,  on  marble  breasts.     And  I  like  to  think 


DREAMTHORP  13 

that  he  was  brave,  she  beautiful;  that  although 
the  monument  is  worn  by  time,  and  sullied  by 
the  stains  of  the  weather,  the  qualities  which  it 
commemorates  —  husbandly  and  wifely  affection, 
courtesy,  courage,  knightly  scorn  of  wrong  and 
falsehood,  meekness,  penitence,  charity — are  exist- 
ing yet  somewhere,  recognisable  by  each  other. 
The  man  who  in  this  world  can  keep  the  white- 
ness of  his  soul,  is  not  likely  to  lose  it  in  any 
other. 

In  summer  I  spent  a  good  deal  of  time  floating 
about  the  lake.  The  landing-place  to  which  my 
boat  is  tethered  is  ruinous,  like  the  chapel  and 
palace,  and  my  embarkation  causes  quite  a  stir 
in  the  sleepy  little  village.  Small  boys  leave 
their  games  and  mud-pies,  and  gather  round  in 
silence;  they  have  seen  me  get  off  a  hundred 
times,  but  their  interest  in  the  matter  seems 
always  new.  Not  unfrequently  an  idle  cobbler,  in 
red  nightcap  and  leathern  apron,  leans  on  a  broken 
stile,  and  honours  my  proceedings  with  his  atten- 
tion. I  shoot  off,  and  the  human  knot  dissolves. 
The  lake  contains  three  islands,  each  with  a  solitary 
tree,  and  on  these  islands  the  swans  breed.  I  feed 
the  birds  daily  with  bits  of  bread.  See,  one  comes 
gliding  towards  me,  with  superbly  arched  neck,  to 
receive  its  customary  alms !  How  wildly  beauti- 
ful its  motions  !  How  haughtily  it  begs  !  The 
green  pasture  lands  run  down  to  the  edge  of  the 
water,  and  into  it  in  the  afternoons  the  red  kine 
wade  and  stand  knee-deep  in  their  shadows,  sur- 
rounded by  troops  of  flies.  Patiently  the  honest 
creatures  abide  the  attacks  of  their  tormentors. 


14  DREAMTHORP 

Now  one  swishes  itself  with  its  tail  —  now  its 
neighbour  flaps  a  huge  ear.  I  draw  my  oars  along- 
side, and  let  my  boat  float  at  its  own  will.  The 
soft  blue  heavenly  abysses,  the  wandering  streams 
of  vapour,  the  long  beaches  of  rippled  cloud,  are 
glassed  and  repeated  in  the  lake.  Dreamthorp 
is  silent  as  a  picture,  the  voices  of  the  children  are 
mute ;  and  the  smoke  from  the  houses,  the  blue 
pillars  all  sloping  in  one  angle,  float  upward  as  if 
in  sleep.  Grave  and  stern  the  old  castle  rises  from 
its  emerald  banks,  which  long  ago  came  down  to 
the  lake  in  terrace  on  terrace,  gay  with  fruits  and 
flowers,  and  with  stone  nymph  and  satyrs  hid  in 
every  nook.  Silent  and  empty  enough  to-day !  A 
flock  of  daws  suddenly  bursts  out  from  a  turret, 
and  round  and  round  they  wheel,  as  if  in  panic. 
Has  some  great  scandal  exploded?  Has  a  con- 
spiracy been  discovered  ?  Has  a  revolution  broken 
out?  The  excitement  has  subsided,  and  one  of 
them,  perched  on  the  old  banner-staff,  chatters 
confidentially  to  himself  as  he,  sideways,  eyes  the 
world  beneath  him.  Floating  about  thus,  time 
passes  swiftly,  for,  before  I  know  where  I  am,  the 
kine  have  withdrawn  from  the  lake  to  couch  on 
the  herbage,  while  one  on  a  little  height  is  lowing 
for  the  milkmaid  and  her  pails.  Along  the  road  I 
see  the  labourers  coming  home  for  supper,  while 
the  sun  setting  behind  me  makes  the  village 
windows  blaze;  and  so  I  take  out  my  oars,  and 
pull  leisurely  through  waters  faintly  flushed  with 
evening  colours. 

I   do   not   think  that  Mr.   Buckle  could  have 
written  his  History  of  Civilisation  in  Dreamthorp, 


DREAMTHORP  15 

because  in  it  books,  conversation,  and  the  other 
appurtenances  of  intellectual  life  are  not  to  be 
procured.  I  am  acquainted  with  birds,  and  the 
building  of  nests — with  wild-flowers,  and  the 
seasons  in  which  they  blow, — but  with  the  big 
world  far  away,  with  what  men  and  women  are 
thinking,  and  doing,  and  saying,  I  am  acquainted 
only  through  the  Times,  and  the  occasional 
magazine  or  review,  sent  by  friends  whom  I  have 
not  looked  upon  for  years,  but  by  whom,  it  seems, 
I  am  not  yet  forgotten.  The  village  has  but  few 
intellectual  wants,  and  the  intellectual  supply  is 
strictly  measured  by  the  demand.  Still  there  is 
something. 

Down  in  the  village,  and  opposite  the  curiously 
carved  fountain,  is  a  schoolroom  which  can  accom- 
modate a  couple  of  hundred  people  on  a  pinch. 
There  are  our  public  meetings  held.  Musical 
entertainments  have  been  given  there  by  a  single 
performer.  In  that  schoolroom  last  winter  an 
American  biologist  terrified  the  villagers,  and,  to 
their  simple  understandings,  mingled  up  the  next 
world  with  this.  Now  and  again  some  rare  bird 
of  an  itinerant  lecturer  covers  dead  walls  with 
posters,  yellow  and  blue,  and  to  that  school-room 
we  flock  to  hear  him.  His  rounded  periods  the 
eloquent  gentleman  devolves  amidst  a  respectful 
silence.  His  audience  do  not  understand  him, 
but  they  see  that  the  clergyman  does,  and  the 
doctor  does ;  and  so  they  are  content,  and  look  as 
attentive  and  wise  as  possible.  Then,  in  connec- 
tion with  the  schoolroom,  there  is  a  public  library, 
where  books  are  exchanged  once  a  month.     This 


i6  DREAMTHORP 

library  is  a  kind  of  Greenwich  Hospital  for  disabled 
novels  and  romances.  Each  of  these  books  has 
been  in  the  wars ;  some  are  unquestionable 
antiques.  The  tears  of  three  generations  have 
fallen  upon  their  dusky  pages.  The  heroes  and 
the  heroines  are  of  another  age  than  ours.  Sir 
Charles  Grandison  is  standing  with  his  hat  under 
his  arm.  Tom  Jones  plops  from  the  tree  into  the 
water,  to  the  infinite  distress  of  Sophia.  Moses 
comes  home  from  market  with  his  stock  of 
shagreen  spectacles.  Lovers,  warriors,  and  villains 
— as  dead  to  the  present  generation  of  readers  as 
Cambyses — are  weeping,  fighting,  and  intriguing. 
These  books,  tattered  and  torn  as  they  are,  are 
read  with  delight  to-day.  The  viands  are  celestial 
if  set  forth  on  a  dingy  tablecloth.  The  gaps  and 
chasms  which  occur  in  pathetic  or  perilous  chapters 
are  felt  to  be  personal  calamities. 

It  is  with  a  certain  feeling  of  tenderness  that  I 
look  upon  these  books ;  I  think  of  the  dead  fingers 
that  have  turned  over  the  leaves,  of  the  dead  eyes 
that  have  travelled  along  the  lines.  An  old  novel 
has  a  history  of  its  own.  When  fresh  and  new,  and 
before  it  had  breathed  its  secret,  it  lay  on  my 
lady's  table.  She  killed  the  weary  day  with  it,  and 
when  night  came  it  was  placed  beneath  her  pillow. 
At  the  seaside  a  couple  of  foolish  heads  have  bent 
over  it,  hands  have  touched  and  tingled,  and  it 
has  heard  vows  and  protestations  as  passionate  as 
any  its  pages  contained.  Coming  down  in  the 
world,  Cinderella  in  the  kitchen  has  blubbered 
over  it  by  the  light  of  a  surreptitious  candle, 
conceiving    herself    the    while    the    magnificent 


DREAMTHORP  17 

Georgiana,  and  Lord  Mordaunt,  Georgiana's  lover, 
the  pot-boy  round  the  corner.  Tied  up  with  many 
a  dingy  brother,  the  auctioneer  knocks  the  bundle 
down  to  the  bidder  of  a  few  pence,  and  it  finds  its 
way  to  the  quiet  cove  of  some  village  library, 
where  with  some  difficulty — as  if  from  want  of 
teeth — and  with  numerous  interruptions — as  if 
from  lack  of  memory — it  tells  its  old  stories,  and 
wakes  tears,  and  blushes,  and  laughter  as  of  yore. 
Thus  it  spends  its  age,  and  in  a  few  years  it  will 
become  unintelligible,  and  then,  in  the  dustbin, 
like  poor  human  mortals  in  the  grave,  it  will  rest 
from  all  its  labours. 

It  is  impossible  to  estimate  the  benefit  which 
such  books  have  conferred.  How  often  have  they 
loosed  the  chain  of  circumstance !  What  un- 
familiar tears — what  unfamiliar  laughter  they  have 
caused  !  What  chivalry  and  tenderness  they  have 
infused  into  rustic  loves  !  Of  what  weary  hours 
they  have  cheated  and  beguiled  their  readers ! 
The  big,  solemn  history-books  are  in  excellent 
preservation;  the  story-books  are  defaced  and 
frayed,  and  their  out-of-elbows  condition  is  their 
pride,  and  the  best  justification  of  their  existence. 
They  are  tashed,  as  roses  are,  by  being  eagerly 
handled  and  smelt.  I  observe,  too,  that  the  most 
ancient  romances  are  not  in  every  case  the  most 
severely  worn.  It  is  the  pace  that  tells  in  horses, 
men,  and  books.  There  are  Nestors  wonderfully 
hale ;  there  are  juveniles  in  a  state  of  dilapidation. 
One  of  the  youngest  books,  The  Old  Curiosity 
Shop,  is  absolutely  falling  to  pieces.  That  book, 
like  Italy,  is  possessor  of  the  fatal  gift ;  but  happily, 


i8  DREAMTHORP 

in  its  case,  everything  can  be  rectified  by  a  new 
edition.  We  have  buried  warriors  and  poets, 
princes  and  queens,  but  no  one  of  these  was 
followed  to  the  grave  by  sincerer  mourners  than 
was  little  Nell. 

Besides  the  itinerant  lecturer,  and  the  permanent 
library,  we  have  the  Sunday  sermon.  These  sum 
up  the  intellectual  aids  and  furtherances  of  the 
whole  place.  We  have  a  church  and  a  chapel, 
and  I  attend  both.  The  Dreamthorp  people  are 
Dissenters,  for  the  most  part ;  why,  I  never  could 
understand;  because  dissent  implies  a  certain 
intellectual  effort.  But  Dissenters  they  are,  and 
Dissenters  they  are  likely  to  remain.  In  an  un- 
gainly building,  filled  with  hard,  gaunt  pews,  without 
an  organ,  without  a  touch  of  colour  in  the 
windows,  with  nothing  to  stir  the  imagination  or 
the  devotional  sense,  the  simple  people  worship. 
On  Sunday,  they  are  put  upon  a  diet  of  spiritual 
bread-and-water.  Personally,  I  should  desire  more 
generous  food.  But  the  labouring  people  listen 
attentively,  till  once  they  fall  asleep,  and  they  wake 
up  to  receive  the  benediction  with  a  feeling  of 
having  done  their  duty.  They  know  they  ought 
to  go  to  chapel,  and  they  go.  I  go  likewise,  from 
habit,  although  I  have  long  ago  lost  the  power  of 
following  a  discourse.  In  my  pew,  and  whilst  the 
clergyman  is  going  on,  I  think  of  the  strangest 
things — of  the  tree  at  the  window,  of  the  congrega- 
tion of  the  dead  outside,  of  the  wheat-fields  and 
the  corn-fields  beyond  and  all  around.  And  the 
odd  thing  is,  that  it  is  during  sermon  only  that  my 
mind  flies  off  at  a  tangent  and  busies  itself  with 


DREAMTHORP  19 

things  removed  from  the  place  and  the  circum- 
stances. Whenever  it  is  finished  fancy  returns 
from  her  wanderings,  and  I  am  aUve  to  the  objects 
around  me.  The  clergyman  knows  my  humour, 
and  is  good  Christian  enough  to  forgive  me ;  and 
he  smiles  good-humouredly  when  I  ask  him  to  let 
me  have  the  chapel  keys,  that  I  may  enter,  when 
in  the  mood,  and  preach  a  sermon  to  myself.  To 
my  mind,  an  empty  chapel  is  impressive;  a 
crowded  one,  comparatively  a  commonplace  affair. 
Alone,  I  could  choose  my  own  text,  and  my  silent 
discourse  would  not  be  without  its  practical 
applications. 

An  idle  life  I  live  in  this  place,  as  the  world 
counts  it;  but  then  I  have  the  satisfaction  of 
differing  from  the  world  as  to  the  meaning  of 
idleness.  A  windmill  twirling  its  arms  all  day  is 
admirable  only  when  there  is  corn  to  grind. 
Twirling  its  arms  for  the  mere  barren  pleasure  of 
twirling  them,  or  for  the  sake  of  looking  busy, 
does  not  deserve  any  rapturous  paean  of  praise. 
I  must  be  made  happy  after  my  own  fashion,  not 
after  the  fashion  of  other  people.  Here  I  can  live 
as  I  please,  here  I  can  throw  the  reins  on  the  neck 
of  my  whim.  Here  I  play  with  my  own  thoughts 
here  I  ripen  for  the  grave. 


ON  THE  WRITING  OF  ESSAYS. 

I  HAVE  already  described  my  environments 
and  my  mode  of  life,  and  out  of  both  I  con- 
trive to  extract  a  very  tolerable  amount  of  satis- 
faction. Love  in  a  cottage,  with  a  broken  window- 
to  let  in  the  rain,  is  not  my  idea  of  comfort ;  no 
more  is  Dignity,  walking  forth  richly  clad,  to  whom 
every  head  uncovers,  every  knee  grows  supple. 
Bruin  in  winter-time  fondly  sucking  his  own  paws, 
loses  flesh  j  and  love,  feeding  upon  itself,  dies  of 
inanition.  Take  the  candle  of  death  in  your  hand, 
and  walk  through  the  stately  galleries  of  the  world, 
and  their  splendid  furniture  and  array  are  as  the 
tinsel  armour  and  pasteboard  goblets  of  a  penny 
theatre;  fame  is  but  an  inscription  on  a  grave, 
and  glory  the  melancholy  blazon  on  a  coffin  lid. 
We  argue  fiercely  about  happiness.  One  insists 
that  she  is  found  in  the  cottage  which  the 
hawthorn  shades.  Another  that  she  is  a  lady 
of  fashion,  and  treads  on  cloth  of  gold.  Wisdom, 
listening  to  both,  shakes  a  white  head,  and 
considers  that  "a  good  deal  may  be  said  on 
both  sides." 

There  is  a  wise  saying  to  the  effect  that  "  a  man 


ON  THE  WRITING  OF  ESSAYS      21 

can  eat  no  more  that  he  can  hold."  Every  man 
gets  about  the  same  satisfaction  out  of  life.  Mr. 
Suddlechops,  the  barber  of  Seven  Dials,  is  as 
happy  as  Alexander  at  the  head  of  his  legions. 
The  business  of  the  one  is  to  depopulate  kingdoms, 
the  business  of  the  other  to  reap  beards  seven  days 
old ;  but  their  relative  positions  do  not  affect  the 
question.  The  one  works  with  razors  and  soap- 
lather,  the  other  with  battle-cries  and  well-greaved 
Greeks.  The  one  of  a  Saturday  night  counts  up 
his  shabby  gains  and  grumbles ;  the  other  on  his 
Saturday  night  sits  down  and  weeps  for  other 
worlds  to  conquer.  The  pence  to  Mr.  Suddle- 
chops are  as  important  as  are  the  worlds  to 
Alexander.  Every  condition  of  life  has  its 
peculiar  advantages,  and  wisdom  points  these 
out  and  is  contented  with  them.  The  varlet 
who  sang — 

"A  king  cannot  swagger 
Or  get  drunk  like  a  beggar, 
Nor  be  half  so  happy  as  I " — 

had  the  soul  of  a  philosopher  in  him.  The 
harshness  of  the  parlour  is  revenged  at  night  in  the 
servants'  hall.  The  coarse  rich  man  rates  his 
domestic,  but  there  is  a  thought  in  the  domestic's 
brain,  docile  and  respectful  as  he  looks,  which 
makes  the  matter  equal,  which  would  madden  the 
rich  man  if  he  knew  it — make  him  wince  as  with  a 
shrewdest  twinge  of  hereditary  gout.  For  insult 
and  degradation  are  not  without  their  peculiar 
solaces.  You  may  spit  upon  Shylock's  gaberdine, 
but  the  day  comes  when  he  demands  his  pound 


22      ON  THE  WRITING  OF  ESSAYS 

of  flesh;  every  blow,  every  insult,  not  without  a 
certain  satisfaction,  he  adds  to  the  account  running 
up  against  you  in  the  day-book  and  ledger  of  his 
hate — which  at  the  proper  time  he  will  ask  you  to 
discharge.  Every  way  we  look  we  see  even-handed 
nature  administering  her  laws  of  compensation. 
Grandeur  has  a  heavy  tax  to  pay.  The  usurper 
rolls  along  like  a  god,  surrounded  by  his  guards. 
He  dazzles  the  crowd — all  very  fine;  but  look 
beneath  his  splendid  trappings  and  you  see  a 
shirt  of  mail,  and  beneath  that  a  heart  cowering 
in  terror  of  an  air-drawn  dagger.  Whom  did  the 
memory  of  Austerlitz  most  keenly  sting?  The 
beaten  emperors  ?  or  the  mighty  Napoleon, 
dying  like  an  untended  watch  -  fire  on  St. 
Helena  ? 

Giddy  people  may  think  the  life  I  lead  here 
staid  and  humdrum,  but  they  are  mistaken.  It 
is  true,  I  hear  no  concerts,  save  those  in  which 
the  thrushes  are  performers  in  the  spring  mornings. 
I  see  no  pictures,  save  those  painted  on  the  wide 
sky-canvas  with  the  colours  of  sunrise  and  sunset. 
I  attend  neither  rout  nor  ball ;  I  have  no  deeper 
dissipation  than  the  tea-table;  I  hear  no  more 
exciting  scandal  than  quiet  village  gossip.  Yet 
I  enjoy  my  concerts  more  than  I  would  the  great 
London  ones.  I  like  the  pictures  I  see,  and  think 
them  better  painted,  too,  than  those  which  adorn 
the  walls  of  the  Royal  Academy ;  and  the  village 
gossip  is  more  after  my  turn  of  mind  than  the 
scandals  that  convulse  the  clubs.  It  is  wonderful 
how  the  whole  world  reflects  itself  in  the  simple 
village  life.     The  people  around  me  are  full  of 


ON  THE  WRITING  OF  ESSAYS      23 

their  own  affairs  and  interests;  were  they  of  im- 
perial magnitude,  they  could  not  be  excited  more 
strongly.  Farmer  Worthy  is  anxious  about  the 
next  market ;  the  likelihood  of  a  fall  in  the  price 
of  butter  and  eggs  hardly  allows  him  to  sleep  o' 
nights.  The  village  doctor — happily  we  have  only 
one — skirrs  hither  and  thither  in  his  gig,  as  if  man 
could  neither  die  nor  be  bom  without  his  assist- 
ance. He  is  continually  standing  on  the  confines 
of  existence,  welcoming  the  new-comer,  bidding 
farewell  to  the  goer-away.  And  the  robustious 
fellow  who  sits  at  the  head  of  the  table  when  the 
Jolly  Swillers  meet  at  the  Blue  Lion  on  Wednesday 
evenings  is  a  great  politician,  sound  of  lung  metal, 
and  wields  the  village  in  the  taproom,  as  my  Lord 
Palmerston  wields  the  nation  in  the  House.  His 
listeners  think  him  a  wiser  personage  than  the 
Premier,  and  he  is  inclined  to  lean  to  that  opinion 
himself.  I  find  everything  here  that  other  men 
find  in  the  big  world.  London  is  but  a  magnified 
Dreamthorp. 

And  just  as  the  Rev.  Mr.  White  took  note  of 
the  ongoings  of  the  seasons  in  and  around 
Hampshire  Selborne,  watched  the  colonies  of  the 
rooks  in  the  tall  elms,  looked  after  the  swallows  in 
the  cottage  and  rectory  eaves,  played  the  affec- 
tionate spy  on  the  private  lives  of  chaffinch  and 
hedge-sparrow,  was  eavesdropper  to  the  solitary 
cuckoo;  so  here  I  keep  eye  and  ear  open;  take 
note  of  man,  woman,  and  child;  find  many  a 
pregnant  text  imbedded  in  the  commonplace  of 
village  life;  and,  out  of  what  I  see  and  hear, 
weave  in  my  own  room  my  essays  as  solitarily  as 


24      ON  THE  WRITING  OF  ESSAYS 

the  spider  weaves  his  web  in  the  darkened  corner. 
The  essay,  as  a  literary  form,  resembles  the  lyric, 
in  so  far  as  it  is  moulded  by  some  central  mood 
— whimsical,  serious,  or  satirical.  Give  the  mood, 
and  the  essay,  from  the  first  sentence  to  the  last, 
grows  around  it  as  the  cocoon  grows  around  the 
silkworm. 

The  essay-writer  is  a  chartered  libertine,  and  a 
law  unto  himself.  A  quick  ear  and  eye,  an  ability 
to  discern  the  infinite  suggestiveness  of  common 
things,  a  brooding  meditative  spirit,  are  all  that  the 
essayist  requires  to  start  business  with.  Jacques,  in 
As  You  Like  It,  had  the  makings  of  a  charming 
essayist.  It  is  not  the  essayist's  duty  to  inform, 
to  build  pathways  through  metaphysical  morasses, 
to  cancel  abuses,  any  more  than  it  is  the  duty  of 
the  poet  to  do  these  things.  Incidentally  he  may 
do  something  in  that  way,  just  as  the  poet  may, 
but  it  is  not  his  duty,  and  should  not  be  expected 
of  him.  Skylarks  are  primarily  created  to  sing, 
although  a  whole  choir  of  them  may  be  baked  in 
pies  and  brought  to  table;  they  were  born  to 
make  music,  although  they  may  incidentally  stay 
the  pangs  of  vulgar  hunger.  The  essayist  is  a 
kind  of  poet  in  prose,  and  if  questioned  harshly 
as  to  his  uses,  he  might  be  unable  to  render  a 
better  apology  for  his  existence  than  a  flower 
might.  The  essay  should  be  pure  literature  as 
the  poem  is  pure  literature.  The  essayist  wears 
a  lance,  but  he  cares  more  for  the  sharpness  of  its 
point  than  for  the  pennon  that  flutters  on  it,  than 
for  the  banner  of  the  captain  under  whom  he 
serves.     He  plays  with  death  as  Hamlet  plays  with 


ON  THE  WRITING  OF  ESSAYS      25 

Yorick's  skull,  and  he  reads  the  morals — strangely 
stern,  often,  for  such  fragrant  lodging — which  are 
folded  up  in  the  bosoms  of  roses.  He  has  no 
pride,  and  is  deficient  in  a  sense  of  the  congruity 
and  fitness  of  things.  He  lifts  a  pebble  from  the 
ground,  and  puts  it  aside  more  carefully  than  any 
gem  ;  and  on  a  nail  in  a  cottage  door  he  will  hang 
the  mantle  of  his  thought,  heavily  brocaded  with 
the  gold  of  rhetoric.  He  finds  his  way  into  the 
Elysian  fields  through  portals  the  most  shabby  and 
commonplace. 

The  essayist  plays  with  his  subject,  now  in 
whimsical,  now  in  grave,  now  in  melancholy  mood. 
He  hes  upon  the  idle  grassy  bank,  like  Jacques, 
letting  the  world  flow  past  him,  and  from  this 
thing  and  the  other  he  extracts  his  mirth  and  his 
moralities.  His  main  gift  is  an  eye  to  discover 
the  suggestiveness  of  common  things;  to  find  a 
sermon  in  the  most  unpromising  texts.  Beyond 
the  vital  hint,  the  first  step,  his  discourses  are  not 
beholden  to  their  titles.  Let  him  take  up  the 
most  trivial  subject,  and  it  will  lead  him  away  to 
the  great  questions  over  which  the  serious  imagina- 
tion loves  to  brood — fortune,  mutability,  death — 
just  as  inevitably  as  the  runnel,  trickling  among 
the  summer  hills,  on  which  sheep  are  bleating, 
leads  you  to  the  sea ;  or  as,  turning  down  the  first 
street  you  come  to  in  the  city,  you  are  led  finally, 
albeit  by  many  an  intricacy,  out  into  the  open 
country,  with  its  waste  places  and  its  woods,  where 
you  are  lost  in  a  sense  of  strangeness  and  solitari- 
ness. The  world  is  to  the  meditative  man  what 
the  mulberry  plant  is  to  the  silkworm.     The  essay- 


26      ON  THE  WRITING  OF  ESSAYS 

writer  has  no  lack  of  subject-matter.  He  has  the 
day  that  is  passing  over  his  head;  and  if  un- 
satisfied with  that,  he  has  the  world's  six  thousand 
years  to  depasture  his  gay  or  serious  humour  upon. 
I  idle  away  my  time  here,  and  I  am  finding  new 
subjects  every  hour.  Everything  I  see  or  hear 
is  an  essay  in  bud.  The  world  is  everywhere 
whispering  essays,  and  one  need  only  be  the 
world's  amanuensis.  The  proverbial  expression 
which  last  evening  the  clown  dropped  as  he 
trudged  homeward  to  supper,  the  light  of  the 
setting  sun  on  his  face,  expands  before  me  to  a 
dozen  pages. 

The  coffin  of  the  pauper,  which  to-day  I  saw 
carried  carelessly  along,  is  as  good  a  subject  as 
the  funeral  procession  of  an  emperor.  Craped 
drum  and  banner  add  nothing  to  death;  penury 
and  disrespect  take  nothing  away.  Incontinently 
my  thought  moves  like  a  slow-paced  hearse  with 
sable  nodding  plumes.  Two  rustic  lovers,  whisper- 
ing between  the  darkening  hedges,  is  as  potent  to 
project  my  mind  into  the  tender  passion  as  if  I 
had  seen  Romeo  touch  the  cheek  of  Juliet  in  the 
moonlight  garden.  Seeing  a  curly-headed  child 
asleep  in  the  sunshine  before  a  cottage  door  is 
sufficient  excuse  for  a  discourse  on  childhood; 
quite  as  good  as  if  I  had  seen  infant  Cain  asleep 
in  the  lap  of  Eve  with  Adam  looking  on.  A  lark 
cannot  rise  to  heaven  without  raising  as  many 
thoughts  as  there  are  notes  in  its  song.  Dawn 
cannot  pour  its  white  light  on  my  village  without 
starting  from  their  dim  lair  a  hundred  remini- 
scences ;  nor  can  sunset  burn  above  yonder  trees 


ON  THE  WRITING  OF  ESSAYS      27 

in  the  west  without  attracting  to  itself  the  melan- 
choly of  a  lifetime.  When  spring  unfolds  her  green 
leaves  I  would  be  provoked  to  indite  an  essay  on 
hope  and  >  juth,  were  it  not  that  it  is  already  writ 
in  the  carols  of  the  birds ;  and  I  might  be  tempted 
in  autumn  to  improve  the  occasion,  were  it  not  for 
the  rustle  of  the  withered  leaves  as  I  walk  through 
the  woods.  Compared  with  that  simple  music, 
the  saddest-cadenced  words  have  but  a  shallow 
meaning. 

The  essayist  who  feeds  his  thoughts  upon  the 
segment  of  the  world  which  surrounds  him  cannot 
avoid  being  an  egotist;  but  then  his  egotism  is 
not  unpleasing.  If  he  be  without  taint  of  boastful- 
ness,  of  self-sufficiency,  of  hungry  vanity,  the  world 
will  not  press  the  charge  home.  If  a  man  dis- 
courses continually  of  his  wines,  his  plate,  his 
titled  acquaintances,  the  number  and  quality  of 
his  horses,  his  men-servants  and  maid-servants,  he 
must  discourse  very  skilfully  indeed  if  he  escapes 
being  called  a  coxcomb.  If  a  man  speaks  of  death 
— tells  you  that  the  idea  of  it  continually  haunts 
him,  that  he  has  the  most  insatiable  curiosity  as  to 
death  and  dying,  that  his  thought  mines  in  church- 
yards like  a  "demon-mole" — no  one  is  specially 
offended,  and  that  this  is  a  dull  fellow  is  the 
hardest  thing  likely  to  be  said  of  him.  Only,  the 
egotism  that  over-crows  you  is  offensive,  that 
exalts  trifles  and  takes  pleasure  in  them,  that 
suggests  superiority  in  matters  of  equipage  and 
furniture ;  and  the  egotism  is  offensive,  because  it 
runs  counter  to  and  jostles  your  self-complacency. 
The  egotism  which  rises  no  higher  than  the  grave 


28      ON  THE  WRITING  OF  ESSAYS 

is  of  a  solitary  and  a  hermit  kind — it  crosses  no 
man's  path,  it  disturbs  no  man's  amour  propre. 
You  may  offend  a  man  if  you  say  you  are  as  rich 
as  he,  as  wise  as  he,  as  handsome  as  he.  You 
offend  no  man  if  you  tell  him  that,  like  him,  you 
have  to  die.  The  king,  in  his  crown  and  corona- 
tion robes,  will  allow  the  beggar  to  claim  that 
relationship  with  him. 

To  have  to  die  is  a  distinction  of  which  no 
man  is  proud.  The  speaking  about  one's  self 
is  not  necessarily  offensive.  A  modest,  truth 
ful  man  speaks  better  about  himself  than  about 
anything  else,  and  on  that  subject  his  speech 
is  likely  to  be  most  profitable  to  his  hearers. 
Certainly,  there  is  no  subject  with  which  he  is 
better  acquainted,  and  on  which  he  has  a  better 
title  to  be  heard.  And  it  is  this  egotism,  this 
perpetual  reference  to  self,  in  which  the  charm 
of  the  essayist  resides.  If  a  man  is  worth 
knowing  at  all,  he  is  worth  knowing  well.  The 
essayist  gives  you  his  thoughts,  and  lets  you 
know,  in  addition,  how  he  came  by  them.  He 
has  nothing  to  conceal ;  he  throws  open  his  doors 
and  windows,  and  lets  him  enter  who  will.  You 
like  to  walk  round  peculiar  or  important  men  as 
you  like  to  walk  round  a  building,  to  view  it 
from  different  points,  and  in  different  lights.  Of 
the  essayist,  when  his  mood  is  communicative, 
you  obtain  a  full  picture.  You  are  made  his 
contemporary  and  familiar  friend.  You  enter 
into  his  humours  and  his  seriousness.  You  are 
made  heir  of  his  whims,  prejudices,  and  playful- 
ness.    You  walk    through  the   whole   nature  of 


ON  THE  WRITING  OF  ESSAYS      29 

him,  as  you  walk  through  the  streets  of  Pompeii, 
looking  into  the  interior  of  stately  mansions^ 
reading  the  satirical  scribblings  on  the  walls. 
And  the  essayist's  habit  of  not  only  giving  you 
his  thoughts,  but  telling  you  how  he  came  by  them, 
is  interesting,  because  it  shows  you  by  what 
alchemy  the  ruder  world  becomes  transmuted 
into  the  finer.  We  like  to  know  the  lineage  of 
ideas,  just  as  we  like  to  know  the  lineage  of  great 
earls  and  swift  racehorses.  We  like  to  know  that 
the  discovery  of  the  law  of  gravitation  was  born 
of  the  fall  of  an  apple  in  an  English  garden  on 
a  summer  afternoon.  Essays  written  after  this 
fashion  are  racy  of  the  soil  in  which  they  grow, 
as  you  taste  the  lava  in  the  vines  grown  on  the 
slopes  of  Etna,  they  say.  There  is  a  healthy 
Gascon  flavour  in  Montaigne's  jEssays;  and 
Charles  Lamb's  are  scented  with  the  primroses 
of  Covent  Garden. 

The  essayist  does  not  usually  appear  early  in  the 
literary  history  of  a  country :  he  comes  naturally 
after  the  poet  and  the  chronicler.  His  habit  of 
mind  is  leisurely ;  he  does  not  write  from  any 
special  stress  of  passionate  impulse ;  he  does  not 
create  material  so  much  as  he  comments  upon 
material  already  existing.  It  is  essential  for  him 
that  books  should  have  been  written,  and  that 
they  should,  at  least  to  some  extent,  have  been 
read  and  digested.  He  is  usually  full  of  allusions 
and  references,  and  these  his  reader  must  be  able 
to  follow  and  understand.  And  in  this  literary 
walk,  as  in  most  others,  the  giants  came  first : 
Montaigne   and   Lord    Bacon   were    our    earliest 


30      ON  THE  WRITING  OF  ESSAYS 

essayists,  and,  as  yet,  they  are  our  best.  In  point 
of  style,  these  essays  are  different  from  anything 
that  could  now  be  produced.  Not  only  is  the 
thinking  different — the  manner  of  setting  forth  the 
thinking  is  different  also.  We  despair  of  reaching 
the  thought,  we  despair  equally  of  reaching  the 
language.  We  can  no  more  bring  back  their  turns 
of  sentence  than  we  can  bring  back  their  tourna- 
ments. 

Montaigne,  in  his  serious  moods,  has  a  curiously 
rich  and  intricate  eloquence ;  and  Bacon's  sentence 
bends  beneath  the  weight  of  his  thought,  like  a 
branch  beneath  the  weight  of  its  fruit.  Bacon 
V  ,  V,  -o  gggjjjg  jQ  j^^yg  written  his  essays  with  Shak- 
"^y-  ^  speare's  pen.  There  is  a  certain  want  of  ease 
0^  Vw4-  about  the  old  writers  which  has  an  irresistible 
i^c*-w  ■^^*  charm.  The  language  flows  like  a  stream  over 
a  pebbled  bed,  with  propulsion,  eddy,  and  sweet 
recoil — the  pebbles,  if  retarding  movement,  giving 
ring  and  dimple  to  the  surface,  and  breaking  the 
whole  into  babbling  music.  There  is  a  ceremoni- 
ousness  in  the  mental  habits  of  these  ancients. 
Their  intellectual  garniture  is  picturesque,  like 
the  garniture  of  their  bodies.  Their  thoughts  are 
courtly  and  high  mannered.  A  singular  analogy 
exists  between  the  personal  attire  of  a  period  and 
its  written  style.  The  peaked  beard,  the  starched 
collar,  the  quilted  doublet,  have  their  correspond- 
ences in  the  high  sentence  and  elaborate  ornament 
(worked  upon  the  thought  like  figures  upon 
tapestry)  of  Sidney  and  Spenser.  In  Pope's  day 
men  wore  rapiers,  and  their  weapons  they  carried 
with    them    into    literature,   and    frequently    un- 


ON  THE  WRITING  OF  ESSAYS      31 

sheathed  them  too.  They  knew  how  to  stab  to 
the  heart  with  an  epigram.  Style  went  out  with 
the  men  who  wore  knee-breeches  and  buckles  in 
their  shoes.  We  write  more  easily  now;  but 
in  our  easy  writing  there  is  ever  a  taint  of 
flippancy :  our  writing  is  to  theirs,  what 
shooting-coat  and  wide-awake  are  to  doublet 
and  plumed  hat. 

Montaigne  and  Bacon  are  our  earliest  and 
greatest  essayists,  and  likeness  and  unlikeness 
exist  between  the  men.  Bacon  was  constitu- 
tionally the  graver  nature.  He  writes  like  one  on 
whom  presses  the  weight  of  affairs,  and  he 
approaches  a  subject  always  on  its  serious  side. 
He  does  not  play  with  it  fantastically.  He  lives 
amongst  great  ideas,  as  with  great  nobles,  with 
whom  he  dare  not  be  too  familiar.  In  the  tone 
of  his  mind  there  is  ever  something  imperial. 
When  he  writes  on  building,  he  speaks  of  a 
palace  with  spacious  entrances,  and  courts,  and 
banqueting-halls ;  when  he  writes  on  gardens,  he 
speaks  of  alleys  and  mounts,  waste  places  and 
fountains,  of  a  garden  "which  is  indeed  prince- 
like." To  read  over  his  table  of  contents,  is  like 
reading  over  a  roll  of  peers'  names.  We  have, 
taking  them  as  they  stand,  essays  treating  Of  Great 
Place,  Of  Boldness,  Of  Goodness,  and  Goodness  of 
Nature,  Of  Nobility,  Of  Seditions  and  Troubles,  Of 
Atheism,  Of  Superstition,  Of  Travel,  Of  Empire^ 
Of  Counsel — a  book  plainly  to  lie  in  the  closets 
of  statesmen  and  princes,  and  designed  to  nurture 
the  noblest  natures.  Bacon  always  seems  to  write 
with  his  ermine  on.     Montaigne  was  different  from 


32      ON  THE  WRITING  OF  ESSAYS 

all  this.  His  table  of  contents  reads  in  com- 
parison like  a  medley,  or  a  catalogue  of  an  auction. 
He  was  quite  as  wise  as  Bacon;  he  could  look 
through  men  quite  as  clearly,  and  search  them 
quite  as  narrowly;  certain  of  his  moods  were 
quite  as  serious,  and  in  one  corner  of  his  heart 
he  kept  a  yet  profounder  melancholy ;  but  he  was 
volatile,  a  humorist,  and  a  gossip.  He  could  be 
dignified  enough  on  great  occasions,  but  dignity 
and  great  occasions  bored  him.  He  could  stand 
in  the  presence  with  propriety  enough,  but  then, 
he  got  out  of  the  presence  as  rapidly  as  possible* 
When,  in  the  thirty-eighth  year  of  his  age,  he — 
somewhat  world-weary,  and  with  more  scars  on 
his  heart  than  he  cared  to  discover — retired  to  his 
chateau,  he  placed  his  library  "  in  the  great  tower 
overlooking  the  entrance  to  the  court,"  and  over 
the  central  rafter  he  inscribed  in  large  letters  the 
device — "I   do  not  understand;   I   pause;    I 

EXAMINE." 

When  he  began  to  write  his  Essays  he  had 
no  great  desire  to  shine  as  an  author;  he  wrote 
simply  to  relieve  teeming  heart  and  brain.  The 
best  method  to  lay  the  spectres  of  the  mind 
is  to  commit  them  to  paper.  Speaking  of  the 
Essays,  he  says,  "This  book  has  a  domestic  and 
private  object.  It  is  intended  for  the  use  of  my 
relations  and  friends ;  so  that,  when  they  have 
lost  me,  which  they  will  soon  do,  they  may  find  in 
it  some  features  of  my  condition  and  humours; 
and  by  this  means  keep  up  more  completely,  and 
in  a  more  lively  manner,  the  knowledge  they  have 
of  me."     In  his  Essays  he  meant  to  portray  him- 


ON  THE  WRITING  OF  ESSAYS      33 

self,  his  habits,  his  modes  of  thought,  his  opinions, 
what  fruit  of  wisdom  he  had  gathered  from  ex- 
perience sweet  and  bitter;  and  the  task  he  has 
executed  with  wonderful  fidelity.  He  does  not 
make  himself  a  hero.  Cromwell  would  have  his 
warts  painted ;  and  Montaigne  paints  his,  and 
paints  them  too  with  a  certain  fondness.  He  is 
perfectly  tolerant  of  himself  and  of  everybody  else. 
Whatever  be  the  subject,  the  writing  flows  on  easy, 
equable,  self-satisfied,  almost  always  with  a  per- 
sonal anecdote  floating  on  the  surface.  Each 
event  of  his  past  life  he  considers  a  fact  of  nature ; 
creditable  or  the  reverse,  there  it  is ;  sometimes 
to  be  speculated  upon,  not  in  the  least  to  be 
regretted.  If  it  is  worth  nothing  else,  it  may  be 
made  the  subject  of  an  essay,  or,  at  least,  be 
useful  as  an  illustration.  We  have  not  only  his 
thoughts,  we  see  also  how  and  from  what  they 
arose.  When  he  presents  you  with  a  bouquet, 
you  notice  that  the  flowers  have  been  plucked 
up  by  the  roots,  and  to  the  roots  a  portion  of  the 
soil  still  adheres. 

On  his  daily  life  his  Essays  grew  like  lichens 
upon  rocks.  If  a  thing  is  useful  to  him,  he  is 
not  squeamish  as  to  where  he  picks  it  up.  In  his 
eyes  there  is  nothing  common  or  unclean ;  and 
he  accepts  a  favour  as  willingly  from  a  beggar 
as  from  a  prince.  When  it  serves  his  purpose, 
he  quotes  a  tavern  catch,  or  the  smart  saying  of 
a  kitchen  wench,  with  as  much  relish  as  the  fine 
sentiment  of  a  classical  poet,  or  the  gallant  bon 
mot  of  a  king.  Everything  is  important  which 
relates  to  himself.  That  his  moustache,  if  stroked 
3 


34      ON  THE  WRITING  OF  ESSAYS 

with  his  perfumed  glove,  or  handkerchief,  will 
retain  the  odour  a  whole  day,  is  related  with  as 
much  gravity  as  the  loss  of  a  battle,  or  the  march 
of  a  desolating  plague.  Montaigne,  in  his  grave 
passages,  reaches  an  eloquence  intricate  and  highly 
wrought ;  but  then  his  moods  are  Protean,  and  he 
is  constantly  alternating  his  stateliness  with  familiar- 
ity, anecdote,  humour,  coarseness.  His  Essays 
are  like  a  mythological  landscape — you  hear  the 
pipe  of  Pan  in  the  distance,  the  naked  goddess 
moves  past,  the  satyr  leers  from  the  thicket.  At 
the  core  of  him  profoundly  melancholy,  and  con- 
sumed by  a  hunger  for  truth,  he  stands  like 
Prospero  in  the  enchanted  island,  and  he  has 
Ariel  and  Caliban  to  do  his  behests  and  run  his 
errands.  Sudden  alternations  are  very  character- 
istic of  him.  Whatever  he  says  suggests  its 
opposite.  He  laughs  at  himself  and  his  reader. 
He  builds  his  castle  of  cards  for  the  mere  pleasure 
of  knocking  it  down  again.  He  is  ever  unexpected 
and  surprising.  And  with  this  curious  mental 
activity,  this  play  and  linked  dance  of  discordant 
elements,  his  page  is  alive  and  restless,  like  the 
constant  flicker  of  light  and  shadow  in  a  mass  of 
foliage  which  the  wind  is  stirring. 

Montaigne  is  avowedly  an  egotist ;  and  by  those 
who  are  inclined  to  make  this  a  matter  of  reproach, 
it  should  be  remembered  that  the  value  of  egotism 
depends  entirely  on  the  egotist.  If  the  egotist  is 
weak,  his  egotism  is  worthless.  If  the  egotist  is 
strong,  acute,  full  of  distinctive  character,  his  egot- 
ism is  precious,  and  remains  a  possession  of  the 
race.     If  Shakspeare  had  left  personal  revelations, 


ON  THE  WRITING  OF  ESSAYS      35 

how  we  should  value  them ;  if,  indeed,  he  has  not 
in  some  sense  left  them  —  if  the  tragedies  and 
comedies  are  not  personal  revelations  altogether — 
the  multiform  nature  of  the  man  rushing  toward 
the  sun  at  once  in  Falstaff,  Hamlet,  and  Romeo. 
But  calling  Montaigne  an  egotist  does  not  go  a 
great  way  to  decipher  him.  No  writer  takes  the 
reader  so  much  into  his  confidence,  and  no  one 
so  entirely  escapes  the  penalty  of  confidence.  He 
tells  us  everything  about  himself,  we  think;  and 
when  all  is  told,  it  is  astonishing  how  little  we 
really  know.  The  esplanades  of  Montaigne's 
palace  are  thoroughfares,  men  from  every  European 
country  rub  clothes  there,  but  somewhere  in 
the  building  there  is  a  secret  room  in  which  the 
master  sits,  of  which  no  one  but  himself  wears 
the  key. 

We  read  in  the  Essays  about  his  wife,  his  daughter, 
his  daughter's  governess,  of  his  cook,  of  his  page, 
"who  was  never  found  guilty  of  telling  the  truth," 
of  his  library,  the  Gascon  harvest  outside  his 
chateau,  his  habits  of  composition,  his  favourite 
speculations;  but  somehow  the  man  himself  is 
constantly  eluding  us.  His  daughter's  governess, 
his  page,  the  ripening  Gascon  fields,  are  never 
introduced  for  their  own  sakes ;  they  are  employed 
to  illustrate  and  set  off  the  subject  on  which  he 
happens  to  be  writing.  A  brawl  in  his  own  kitchen 
he  does  not  consider  worthy  of  being  specially  set 
down,  but  he  has  seen  and  heard  everything;  it 
comes  in  his  way  when  travelling  in  some  remote 
region,  and  accordingly  it  finds  a  place.  He  is  the 
frankest,  most  outspoken  of  writers ;  and  that  very 


36      ON  THE  WRITING  OF  ESSAYS 

frankness  and  outspokenness  puts  the  reader  off 
his  guard.  If  you  wish  to  preserve  your  secret, 
wrap  it  up  in  frankness.  The  Essays  are  full  of 
this  trick.  The  frankness  is  as  well  simulated  as 
the  grape  branches  of  the  Grecian  artist  which  the 
birds  flew  towards  and  pecked.  When  Montaigne 
retreats,  he  does  so  like  a  skilful  general,  leaving 
his  fires  burning.  In  other  ways,  too,  he  is  an 
adept  in  putting  his  reader  out.  He  discourses 
with  the  utmost  gravity,  but  you  suspect  mockery 
or  banter  in  his  tones.  He  is  serious  with  the 
most  trifling  subjects,  and  he  trifles  with  the  most 
serious.  "  He  broods  eternally  over  his  own 
thought,"  but  who  can  tell  what  his  thought 
may  be  for  the  nonce?  He  is  of  all  writers  the 
most  vagrant,  surprising,  and,  to  many  minds, 
illogical. 

His  sequences  are  not  the  sequences  of  other 
men.  His  writings  are  as  full  of  transformations 
as  a  pantomime  or  a  fairy  tale.  His  arid  wastes 
lead  up  to  glittering  palaces,  his  banqueting-halls 
end  in  a  dog-hutch.  He  begins  an  essay  about 
trivialities,  and  the  conclusion  is  in  the  other  world. 
And  the  peculiar  character  of  his  writing,  like  the 
peculiar  character  of  all  writing  which  is  worth 
anything,  arises  from  constitutional  turn  of  mind. 
He  is  constantly  playing  at  fast  and  loose  with 
himself  and  his  reader.  He  mocks  and  scorns 
his  deeper  nature ;  and,  like  Shakspeare  in  Hamlet^ 
says  his  deepest  things  in  a  jesting  way.  When 
he  is  gayest,  be  sure  there  is  a  serious  design  in  his 
gaiety.  Singularly  shrewd  and  penetrating — sad, 
not  only  from  sensibility   of  exquisite  nerve  and 


ON  THE  WRITING  OF  ESSAYS      37 

tissue,  but  from  meditation,  and  an  eye  that 
pierced  the  surfaces  of  things — fond  of  pleasure, 
yet  strangely  fascinated  by  death — sceptical,  yet 
clinging  to  what  the  Church  taught  and  believed 
— lazily  possessed  by  a  high  ideal  of  life,  yet 
unable  to  reach  it,  careless  perhaps  often  to  strive 
after  it,  and  with  no  very  high  opinion  of  his  own 
goodness,  or  of  the  goodness  of  his  fellows — and 
with  all  these  serious  elements,  an  element  of 
humour,  mobile  as  flame,  which  assumed  a  variety 
of  forms,  now  pure  fun,  now  mischievous  banter, 
now  blistering  scorn — humour  in  all  its  shapes, 
carelessly  exercised  on  himself  and  his  readers — 
with  all  this  variety,  complexity,  riot,  and  con- 
tradiction almost  of  intellectual  forces  within, 
Montaigne  wrote  his  bewildering  Essays — with  the 
exception  of  Rabelais,  the  greatest  modern  French- 
man— the  creator  of  a  distinct  literary  form,  and  to 
whom,  down  even  to  our  own  day,  even  in  point 
of  subject-matter,  every  essayist  has  been  more  or 
less  indebted. 

Bacon  is  the  greatest  of  the  serious  and  stately 
essayists, — Montaigne  the  greatest  of  the  garrulous 
and  communicative.  The  one  gives  you  his 
thoughts  on  Death,  Travel,  Government,  and  the 
like,  and  lets  you  make  the  best  of  them  ;  the 
other  gives  you  his  on  the  same  subjects,  but  he 
wraps  them  up  in  personal  gossip  and  reminiscence. 
With  the  last  it  is  never  Death  or  Travel  alone ;  it 
is  always  Death  one-fourth,  and  Montaigne  three- 
fourths;  or  Travel  one-fourth,  and  Montaigne 
three-fourths.  He  pours  his  thought  into  the  water 
of  gossip,  and  gives  you  to  drink.     He  gilds  his 


38      ON  THE  WRITING  OF  ESSAYS 

pill  always,  and  he  always  gilds  it  with  himself. 
The  general  characteristics  of  his  Essays  have  been 
indicated,  and  it  is  worth  while  inquiring  what 
they  teach,  what  positive  good  they  have  done, 
and  why  for  three  centuries  they  have  charmed 
and  still  continue  to  charm. 

The  Essays  contain  a  philosophy  of  life,  which 
is  not  specially  high,  yet  which  is  certain  to 
find  acceptance  more  or  less  with  men  who  have 
passed  out  beyond  the  glow  of  youth,  and  who 
have  made  trial  of  the  actual  world.  The  essence 
of  his  philosophy  is  a  kind  of  cynical  common 
sense. 

He  will  risk  nothing  in  Ufe ;  he  will  keep  to  the 
beaten  track;  he  will  not  let  passion  blind  or 
enslave  him;  he  will  gather  around  him  what 
good  he  can,  and  will  therewith  endeavour  to  be 
content.  He  will  be,  as  far  as  possible,  self- 
sustained;  he  will  not  risk  his  happiness  in  the 
hands  of  man,  or  of  woman  either.  He  is  shy  of 
friendship,  he  fears  love,  for  he  knows  that  both 
are  dangerous.  He  knows  that  life  is  full  of 
bitters,  and  he  holds  it  wisdom  that  a  man  should 
console  himself,  as  far  as  possible,  with  its  sweets, 
the  principal  of  which  are  peace,  travel,  leisure, 
and  the  writing  of  essays.  He  values  obtainable 
Gascon  bread  and  cheese  more  than  the  unobtain- 
able stars.  He  thinks  crying  for  the  moon  the 
foolishest  thing  in  the  world.  He  will  remain 
where  he  is.  He  will  not  deny  that  a  new  world 
may  exist  beyond  the  sunset,  but  he  knows  that  to 
reach  the  new  world  there  is  a  troublesome 
Atlantic  to  cross ;  and  he  is  not  in  the  least  certain 


ON  THE  WRITING  OF  ESSAYS      39 

that,  putting  aside  the  chance  of  being  drowned  on 
the  way,  he  will  be  one  whit  happier  in  the  new 
world  than  he  is  in  the  old.  For  his  part  he  will 
embark  with  no  Columbus.  He  feels  that  life  is 
but  a  sad  thing  at  best ;  but  as  he  has  little  hope 
of  making  it  better,  he  accepts  it,  and  will  not 
make  it  worse  by  murmuring.  'When  the  chain 
galls  him,  he  can  at  least  revenge  himself  by 
jests  on  it.  He  will  temper  the  despotism  of 
nature  by  epigrams.  He  has  read  ^sop's  fable, 
and  is  the  last  man  in  the  world  to  relinquish 
the  shabbiest  substance  to  grasp  at  the  finest 
shadow. 

Of  nothing  under  the  sun  was  Montaigne  quite 
certain,  except  that  every  man — whatever  his 
station — might  travel  farther  and  fare  worse  ;  and 
that  the  playing  with  his  own  thoughts,  in  the 
shape  of  essay-writing,  was  the  most  harmless  of 
amusements.  His  practical  acquiescence  in  things 
does  not  promise  much  fruit,  save  to  himself;  yet 
in  virtue  of  it  he  became  one  of  the  forces  of  the 
world — a  very  visible  agent  in  bringing  about  the 
Europe  which  surrounds  us  to-day.  He  lived  in  the 
midst  of  the  French  religious  wars.  The  rulers  of 
his  country  were  execrable  Christians,  but  most 
orthodox  Catholics.  The  burning  of  heretics  was 
a  public  amusement,  and  the  court  ladies  sat  out 
the  play.  On  the  queen-mother  and  on  her 
miserable  son  lay  all  the  blood  of  the  St  Bartholo- 
mew. The  country  was  torn  asunder ;  everywhere 
was  battle,  murder,  pillage,  and  such  woeful 
partings  as  Mr.  Millais  has  represented  in  his 
incomparable  picture.     To  the  solitary  humorous 


40      ON  THE  WRITING  OF  ESSAYS 

essayist  this  state  of  things  was  hateful.  He  was 
a  good  Catholic  in  his  easy  way;  he  attended 
divine  service  regularly;  he  crossed  himself  when 
he  yawned.  He  conformed  in  practice  to  every 
rule  of  the  Church;  but  if  orthodox  in  these 
matters,  he  was  daring  in  speculation.  There  was 
nothing  he  was  not  bold  enough  to  question.  He 
waged  war  after  his  peculiar  fashion  with  every 
form  of  superstition.  He  worked  under  the 
foundations  of  priestcraft.  But  while  serving  the 
Reformed  cause,  he  had  no  sympathy  with 
Reformers.  If  they  would  but  remain  quiet,  but 
keep  their  peculiar  notions  to  themselves,  France 
would  rest ! 

That  a  man  should  go  to  the  stake  for  an 
opinion,  was  as  incomprehensible  to  him  as  that 
a  priest  or  king  should  send  him  there  for  an 
opinion.  He  thought  the  persecuted  and  the 
persecutors  fools  about  equally  matched.  He 
was  easy  tempered  and  humane — in  the  hunting- 
field,  he  could  not  bear  the  cry  of  a  dying  hare 
with  composure — martyr-burning  had  consequently 
no  attraction  for  such  a  man.  His  scepticism 
came  into  play,  his  melancholy  humour,  his  sense 
of  the  illimitable  which  surrounds  man's  life,  and 
which  mocks,  defeats,  flings  back  his  thought  upon 
himself.  Man  is  here,  he  said,  with  bounded 
powers,  with  limited  knowledge,  with  an  unknown 
behind,  an  unknown  in  front,  assured  of  nothing 
but  that  he  was  born,  and  that  he  must  die ;  why, 
then,  in  Heaven's  name  should  he  burn  his  fellow 
for  a  difference  of  opinion  in  the  matter  of  sur- 
plices, or  as  to  the  proper  fashion  of  conducting 


ON  THE  WRITING  OF  ESSAYS      41 

devotion  ?  Out  of  his  scepticism  and  his  merciful 
disposition  grew,  in  that  fiercely  intolerant  age, 
the  idea  of  toleration,  of  which  he  was  the  apostle. 
Widely  read,  charming  every  one  by  his  wit  and 
wisdom,  his  influence  spread  from  mind  to  mind, 
and  assisted  in  bringing  about  the  change  which 
has  taken  place  in  European  thought.  His  ideas, 
perhaps,  did  not  spring  from  the  highest  sources. 
He  was  no  ascetic,  he  loved  pleasure,  he  was 
tolerant  of  everything  except  cruelty ;  but  on  that 
account  we  should  not  grudge  him  his  meed.  It 
is  in  this  indirect  way  that  great  writers  take  their 
place  among  the  forces  of  the  world.  In  the  long 
run,  genius  and  wit  side  with  the  right  cause.  And 
the  man  fighting  against  wrong  to-day  is  assisted, 
in  a  greater  degree  than  perhaps  he  is  himself 
aware,  by  the  sarcasm  of  this  writer,  the  metaphor 
of  that,  the  song  of  the  other,  although  the  writers 
themselves  professed  indifference,  or  were  even 
counted  as  belonging  to  the  enemy. 

Montaigne's  hold  on  his  readers  arises  from 
many  causes.  There  is  his  frank  and  curious  self- 
delineation  ;  that  interests,  because  it  is  the  revela- 
tion of  a  very  peculiar  nature.  Then  there  is  the 
positive  value  of  separate  thoughts  imbedded  in 
his  strange  whimsicality  and  humour.  Lastly, 
there  is  the  perennial  charm  of  style,  which  is 
never  a  separate  quality,  but  rather  the  amalgam 
and  issue  of  all  the  mental  and  moral  qualities  in 
a  man's  possession,  and  which  bears  the  same 
relation  to  these  that  light  bears  to  the  mingled 
elements  that  make  up  the  orb  of  the  sun.  And 
style,   after  all,  rather   than  thought,   is   the   im- 


42      ON  THE  WRITING  OF  ESSAYS 

mortal  thing  in  literature.  In  literature,  the  charm 
of  style  is  indefinable,  yet  all-subduing,  just  as  fine 
manners  are  in  social  life.  In  reality,  it  is  not  of 
so  much  consequence  what  you  say,  as  how  you 
say  it.  Memorable  sentences  are  memorable  on 
account  of  some  single  irradiating  word.  "But 
Shadwell  never  deviates  into  sense,"  for  instance. 
Young  Roscius,  in  his  provincial  barn,  will  repeat 
you  the  great  soliloquy  of  Hamlet,  and  although 
every  word  may  be  given  with  tolerable  correctness, 
you  find  it  just  as  commonplace  as  himself;  the 
great  actor  speaks  it,  and  you  "read  Shakspeare 
as  by  a  flash  of  lightning."  And  it  is  in  Montaigne's 
style,  in  the  strange  freaks  and  turnings  of  his 
thought,  his  constant  surprises,  his  curious  alterna- 
tions of  humour  and  melancholy,  his  careless, 
familiar  form  of  address,  and  the  grace  with  which 
everything  is  done,  that  his  charm  lies,  and  which 
makes  the  hundredth  perusal  of  him  as  pleasant  as 
the  first. 

And  on  style  depends  the  success  of  the  essayist. 
Montaigne  said  the  most  familiar  things  in  the 
finest  way.  Goldsmith  could  not  be  termed  a 
thinker ;  but  everything  he  touched  he  brightened, 
as  after  a  month  of  dry  weather,  the  shower 
brightens  the  dusty  shrubbery  of  a  suburban  villa. 
The  world  is  not  so  much  in  need  of  new  thoughts 
as  that  when  thought  grows  old  and  worn  with 
usage  it  should,  like  current  coin,  be  called  in, 
and,  from  the  mint  of  genius,  reissued  fresh  and 
new.  Love  is  an  old  story  enough,  but  in  every 
generation  it  is  re-born,  in  the  downcast  eyes  and 
blushes  of  young  maidens.     And  so,  although  he 


ON  THE  WRITING  OF  ESSAYS      43 

fluttered  in  Eden,  Cupid  is  young  to-day.  If 
Montaigne  had  lived  in  Dreamthorp,  as  I  am  now 
living,  had  he  written  essays  as  I  am  now  writing 
them,  his  English  Essays  would  have  been  as  good 
as  his  Gascon  ones.  Looking  on,  the  country 
cart  would  not  for  nothing  have  passed  him  on  the 
road  to  market,  the  setting  sun  would  be  arrested  in 
its  splendid  colours,  the  idle  chimes  of  the  church 
would  be  translated  into  a  thoughtful  music.  As 
it  is,  the  village  life  goes  on,  and  there  is  no  result. 
My  sentences  are  not  much  more  brilliant  than 
the  speeches  of  the  clowns ;  in  my  book  there  is 
little  more  life  than  there  is  in  the  market-place  on 
the  days  when  there  is  no  market 


-:7A'!<:7 


ON  DEATH  AND  THE  FEAR  OF 
DYING. 

LET  me  curiously  analyse  eternal  farewells, 
and  the  last  pressures  of  loving  hands. 
Let  me  smile  at  faces  bewept,  and  the  nodding 
plumes  and  slow  paces  of  funerals.  Let  me  write 
down  brave  heroical  sentences — sentences  that 
defy  death,  as  brazen  Goliath  the  hosts  of  Israel. 

"  When  death  waits  for  us  is  uncertain ;  let  us 
everywhere  look  for  him.  The  premeditation  of 
death  is  the  premeditation  of  liberty;  who  has 
learnt  to  die,  has  forgot  to  serve.  There  is  nothing 
of  evil  in  life  for  him  who  rightly  comprehends 
that  death  is  no  evil ;  to  know  how  to  die  delivers 
us  from  all  subjection  and  constraint.  Paulus 
^milius  answered  him  whom  the  miserable  King 
of  Macedon,  his  prisoner,  sent  to  entreat  him  that 
he  would  not  lead  him  in  his  triumph,  ^  Let  him 
make  that  request  to  himself.'  In  truth,  in  all 
things,  if  nature  do  not  help  a  little,  it  is  very 
hard  for  art  and  industry  to  perform  anything  to 
purpose.  I  am,  in  my  own  nature,  not  melancholy, 
but  thoughtful ;  and  there  is  nothing  I  have  more 
continually   entertained    myself  withal    than    the 


DEATH  AND  DYING  45 

imaginations  of  death,  even  in  the  gayest  and 
most  wanton  time  of  my  age.  In  the  company 
of  ladies,  and  in  the  height  of  mirth,  some  have 
perhaps  thought  me  possessed  of  some  jealousy, 
or  meditating  upon  the  uncertainty  of  some 
imagined  hope,  whilst  I  was  entertaining  myself 
with  the  remembrance  of  some  one  surprised  a 
few  days  before  with  a  burning  fever,  of  which 
he  died,  returning  from  an  entertainment  like 
this,  with  his  head  full  of  idle  fancies  of  love  and 
jollity,  as  mine  was  then;  and  for  aught  I  knew, 
the  same  destiny  was  attending  me.  Yet  did  not 
this  thought  wrinkle  my  forehead  any  more  than 
any  other."  .  .  .  "Why  dost  thou  fear  this  last 
day  ?  It  contributes  no  more  to  thy  destruction 
than  every  one  of  the  rest.  The  last  step  is  not 
the  cause  of  lassitude,  it  does  but  confer  it.  Every 
day  travels  toward  death;  the  last  only  arrives 
at  it. 

These  are  the  good  lessons  our  mother  nature 
teaches.  I  have  often  considered  with  myself 
whence  it  should  proceed,  that  in  war  the  image 
of  death — whether  we  look  upon  it  as  to  our  own 
particular  danger,  or  that  of  another — should, 
without  comparison,  appear  less  dreadful  than  at 
home  in  our  own  houses  (for  if  it  were  not  so,  it 
would  be  an  army  of  whining  milk-sops),  and  that 
being  still  in  all  places  the  same,  there  should  be, 
notwithstanding,  much  more  assurance  in  peasants 
and  the  meaner  sort  of  people,  than  others  of 
better  quality  and  education ;  and  I  do  verily 
believe,  that  it  is  those  terrible  ceremonies  and 
preparations  wherewith   we   set  it  out,  that  more 


46  DEATH  AND  DYING 

terrify  us  than  the  thing  itself;  a  new,  quite 
contrary  way  of  living,  the  cries  of  mothers,  wives, 
and  children,  the  visits  of  astonished  and  affected 
friends,  the  attendance  of  pale  and  blubbered 
servants,  a  dark  room  set  round  with  burning 
tapers,  our  beds  environed  with  physicians  and 
divines;  in  fine,  nothing  but  ghostliness  and 
horror  round  about  us,  render  it  so  formidable, 
that  a  man  almost  fancies  himself  dead  and  buried 
already.  Children  are  afraid  even  of  those  they 
love  best,  and  are  best  acquainted  with,  when 
disguised  in  a  vizor,  and  so  are  we;  the  vizor 
must  be  removed  as  well  from  things  as  persons ; 
which  being  taken  away,  we  shall  find  nothing 
underneath  but  the  very  same  death  that  a  mean 
servant,  or  a  poor  chambermaid,  died  a  day  or 
two  ago,  without  any  manner  of  apprehension  or 
concern."  * 

"  Men  feare  death  as  children  feare  to  goe  in  the 
darke;  and  as  that  natural  feare  in  children  is 
increased  with  tales,  so  in  the  other.  Certainly 
the  contemplation  of  death  as  the  wages  of  sinne, 
and  passage  to  another  world,  is  holy  and  religious ; 
but  the  feare  of  it  as  a  tribute  due  unto  nature,  is 
weake.  Yet  in  religious  meditations  there  is 
sometimes  mixture  of  vanitie  and  of  superstition. 
You  shal  reade  in  some  of  the  friars'  books  of 
mortification^  that  a  man  should  thinke  unto 
himself  what  the  paine  is  if  he  have  but  his  finger- 
end  pressed  or  tortured ;  and  thereby  imagine 
what  the  paines  of  death  are  when  the  whole 
body  is  corrupted  and  dissolved;  when  many 
^  Montaigne. 


DEATH  AND  DYING  47 

times  death  passeth  with  lesse  paine  than  the 
torture  of  a  Lemme.  For  the  most  vitall  parts  are 
not  the  quickest  of  sense.  Groanes  and  con- 
vulsions, and  a  discoloured  face,  and  friends 
weeping,  and  blackes  and  obsequies,  and  the  like, 
shew  death  terrible.  It  is  worthy  the  observing, 
that  there  is  no  passion  in  the  minde  of  man  so 
weake  but  it  mates  and  masters  the  feare  of  death ; 
and  therefore  death  is  no  such  terrible  enemy 
when  a  man  hath  so  many  attendants  about  him 
that  can  winne  the  combat  of  him.  Revenge 
triumphs  over  death,  love  subjects  it,  honour  aspireth 
to  it,  griefe  fleeth  to  it,  feare  pre-occupieth  it ;  nay, 
we  read,  after  Otho  the  emperour  had  slaine 
himselfe,  pitty  (which  is  the  tenderest  of  affections) 
provoked  many  to  die,  out  of  meer  compassion 
to  their  soveraigne,  and  as  the  truest  sort  of 
followers.  ...  It  is  as  naturall  to  die  as  to  be 
borne;  and  to  a  little  infant,  perhaps,  the  one 
is  as  painfull  as  the  other.  He  that  dies  in  an 
earnest  pursuit  is  like  one  that  is  wounded  in  hot 
blood,  who  for  the  time  scarce  feels  the  hurt; 
and,  therefore,  a  minde  fixt  and  bent  upon  some- 
what that  is  good,  doth  avert  the  sadness  of  death. 
But  above  all,  believe  it,  the  sweetest  canticle  is,, 
Nunc  Dimittis,  when  a  man  hath  obtained  worthy 
ends  and  expectations.  Death  hath  this;  also; 
that  it  openeth  the  gate  to  good  fame,  and 
extinguisheth  envie."  ^ 

These  sentences  of  the  great  essayists  are  brave 
and    ineffectual    as    Leonidas    and    his    Greeks. 
Death  cares  very  little  for  sarcasm  or  trope ;  hurl 
^  Bacon. 


48  DEATH  AND  DYING 

at  him  a  javelin  or  a  rose,  it  is  all  one.  We  build 
around  ourselves  ramparts  of  stoical  maxims, 
edifying  to  witness,  but  when  the  terror  comes 
these  yield  as  the  knots  of  river  flags  to  the 
shoulder  of  Behemoth. 

Death  is  terrible  only  in  presence.  When 
distant,  or  supposed  to  be  distant,  we  can  call 
him  hard  or  tender  names,  nay,  even  poke  our 
poor  fun  at  him.  Mr.  Punch,  on  one  occasion, 
when  he  wished  to  ridicule  the  useful-information 
leanings  of  a  certain  periodical  publication,  quoted 
from  its  pages  the  sentence,  "Man  is  mortal," 
and  people  were  found  to  grin  broadly  over  the 
exquisite  stroke  of  humour.  Certainly  the  words, 
and  the  fact  they  contain,  are  trite  enough.  Utter 
the  sentence  gravely  in  any  company,  and  you  are 
certain  to  provoke  laughter.  And  yet  some 
subtle  recognition  of  the  fact  of  death  runs  con- 
stantly through  the  warp  and  woof  of  the  most 
ordinary  human  existence.  And  this  recognition 
does  not  always  terrify.  The  spectre  has  the 
most  cunning  disguises,  and  often  when  near  us 
we  are  unaware  of  the  fact  of  proximity.  Un- 
suspected, this  idea  of  death  lurks  in  the  sweetness 
of  music;  it  has  something  to  do  with  the  pleasure 
with  which  we  behold  the  vapours  of  morning ;  it 
comes  between  the  passionate  lips  of  lovers;  it 
Hves  in  the  thrill  of  kisses.  "An  inch  deeper, 
and  you  will  find  the  emperor."  Probe  joy  to  its 
last  fibre,  and  you  will  find  death.  And  it  is  the 
most  merciful  of  all  the  merciful  provisions  of 
nature,  that  a  haunting  sense  of  insecurity  should 
deepen  the  enjoyment  of  what  we  have  secured; 


DEATH  AND  DYING  49 

that  the  pleasure  of  our  warm  human  day  and  its 
activities  should  to  some  extent  arise  from  a 
vague  consciousness  of  the  waste  night  which 
environs  it,  in  which  no  arm  is  raised,  in  which  no 
voice  is  ever  heard.  Death  is  the  ugly  fact  which 
nature  has  to  hide,  and  she  hides  it  well.  Human 
life  were  otherwise  an  impossibility.  The  panto- 
mime runs  on  merrily  enough ;  but  when  once 
Harlequin  lifts  his  vizor.  Columbine  disappears, 
the  jest  is  frozen  on  the  Clown's  lips,  and  the  hand 
of  the  filching  Pantaloon  is  arrested  in  the  act 
Wherever  death  looks,  there  is  silence  and  tremb- 
ling. But  although  on  every  man  he  will  one  day 
or  another  look,  he  is  coy  of  revealing  himself 
till  the  appointed  time.  He  makes  his  approaches 
like  an  Indian  warrior,  under  covers  and  ambushes. 
We  have  our  parts  to  play,  and  he  remains  hooded 
till  they  are  played  out.  We  are  agitated  by  our 
passions,  we  busily  pursue  our  ambitions,  we  are 
acquiring  money  or  reputation,  and  all  at  once,  in 
the  centre  of  our  desires,  we  discover  the  "  Shadow 
feared  of  man."  And  so  nature  fools  the  poor 
human  mortal  evermore.  When  she  means  to  be 
deadly,  she  dresses  her  face  in  smiles ;  when  she 
selects  a  victim,  she  sends  him  a  poisoned  rose. 
There  is  no  pleasure,  no  shape  of  good  fortune,  no 
form  of  glory  in  which  death  has  not  hid  himself, 
and  waited  silently  for  his  prey. 

And  death  is  the  most  ordinary  thing  in  the  world. 
It  is  as  common  as  births :  it  is  of  more  frequent 
occurrence  than  marriages  and  the  attainment  of 
majorities.  But  the  difference  between  death  and 
other  forms  of  human  experience  lies  in  this,  that 
4 


50  DEATH   AND  DYING 

we  can  gain  no  information  about  it.  The  dead 
man  is  wise,  but  he  is  silent.  We  cannot  wring  his 
secret  from  him.  We  cannot  interpret  the  ineffable 
calm  which  gathers  on  the  rigid  face.  As  a  conse- 
quence, when  our  thought  rests  on  death  we  are 
smitten  with  isolation  and  loneliness.  We  are 
without  company  on  the  dark  road ;  and  we  have 
advanced  so  far  upon  it  that  we  cannot  hear  the 
voices  of  our  friends.  It  is  in  this  sense  of  loneli- 
ness, this  consciousness  of  identity  and  nothing 
more,  that  the  terror  of  dying  consists.  And  yet, 
compared  to  that  road,  the  most  populous  thorough- 
fare of  London  or  Pekin  is  a  desert.  What 
enumerator  will  take  for  us  the  census  of  the 
dead? 

And  this  matter  of  death  and  dying,  like  most 
things  else  in  the  world,  may  be  exaggerated  by  our 
own  fears  and  hopes.  Death,  terrible  to  look 
forward  to,  may  be  pleasant  even  to  look  back  at. 
Could  we  be  admitted  to  the  happy  fields,  and  hear 
the  conversations  which  blessed  spirits  hold,  one 
might  discover  that  to  conquer  death  a  man  has 
but  to  die ;  that  by  that  act  terror  is  softened  into 
familiarity,  and  that  the  remembrance  of  death 
becomes  but  as  the  remembrance  of  yesterday. 
To  these  fortunate  ones  death  may  be  but  a  date, 
and  dying  a  subject  fruitful  in  comparisons,  a 
matter  on  which  experiences  may  be  serenely 
compared.  Meantime,  however,  we  have  not  yet 
reached  that  measureless  content,  and  death  scares, 
piques,  tantalises,  as  mind  and  nerve  are  built. 
Situated  as  we  are,  knowing  that  it  is  inevitable, 
we  cannot   keep  our  thoughts  from  resting  on  it 


DEATH  AND  DYING  51 

curiously,  at  times.  Nothing  interests  us  so  much. 
The  Highland  seer  pretended  that  he  could  see  the 
winding-sheet  high  upon  the  breast  of  the  man  for 
whom  death  was  waiting.  Could  we  behold  any 
such  visible  sign,  the  man  who  bore  it,  no  matter 
where  he  stood — even  if  he  were  a  slave  watching 
Caesar  pass — would  usurp  every  eye.  At  the 
coronation  of  a  king,  the  wearing  of  that  order 
would  dim  royal  robe,  quench  the  sparkle  of  the 
diadem,  and  turn  to  vanity  the  herald's  cry.  Death 
makes  the  meanest  beggar  august,  and  that  august- 
ness  would  assert  itself  in  the  presence  of  a  king. 
And  it  is  this  curiosity  with  regard  to  everything 
related  to  death  and  dying  which  makes  us  treasure 
up  the  last  sayings  of  great  men,  and  attempt  to 
wring  out  of  them  tangible  meanings.  Was  Goethe's 
"Light — light,  more  light!"  a  prayer,  or  a  state- 
ment of  spiritual  experience,  or  simply  an  utterance 
of  the  fact  that  the  room  in  which  he  lay  was  filling 
with  the  last  twilight?  In  consonance  with  our 
own  natures  we  interpret  it  the  one  way  or  the  other 
— he  is  beyond  our  questioning.  For  the  same 
reason  it  is  that  men  take  interest  in  executions — 
from  Charles  i.  on  the  scaffold  at  Whitehall,  to 
Porteous  in  the  Grassmarket  execrated  by  the  mob. 
These  men  are  not  dulled  by  disease,  they  are  not 
delirious  with  fever;  they  look  death  in  the  face, 
and  what  in  these  circumstances  they  say  and  do 
has  the  strangest  fascination  for  us. 

What  does  the  murderer  think  when  his  eyes  are 
for  ever  blinded  by  the  accursed  nightcap?  In 
what  form  did  thought  condense  itself  between  the 
gleam  of  the  lifted  axe  and  the  rolling  of  King 


52  DEATH  AND  DYING 

Charles's  head  in  the  sawdust?  This  kind  of 
speculation  may  be  morbid,  but  it  is  not  necessarily 
so.  All  extremes  of  human  experience  touch  us ; 
and  we  have  all  the  deepest  personal  interest  in  the 
experience  of  death.  Out  of  all  we  know  about 
dying  we  strive  to  clutch  something  which  may 
break  its  solitariness,  and  relieve  us  by  a  touch 
of  companionship. 

To  denude  death  of  its  terrible  associations  were 
a  vain  attempt.  The  atmosphere  is  always  cold 
around  an  iceberg.  In  the  contemplation  of  dying 
the  spirit  may  not  flinch,  but  pulse  and  heart, 
colour  and  articulation,  are  always  cowards.  No 
philosophy  will  teach  them  bravery  in  the  stem 
presence.  And  yet  there  are  considerations  which 
rob  death  of  its  ghastliness,  and  help  to  reconcile 
us  to  it.  The  thoughtful  happiness  of  a  human 
being  is  complex,  and  in  certain  moved  moments, 
which,  after  they  have  gone,  we  can  recognise  to 
have  been  our  happiest,  some  subtle  thought  of 
death  has  been  curiously  intermixed.  And  this 
subtle  intermixture  it  is  which  gives  the  happy 
moment  its  character — which  makes  the  difference 
between  the  gladness  of  a  child,  resident  in  mere 
animal  health  and  impulse,  and  too  volatile  to  be 
remembered,  and  the  serious  joy  of  a  man,  which 
looks  before  and  after,  and  takes  in  both  this  world 
and  the  next.  Speaking  broadly,  it  may  be  said 
that  it  is  from  some  obscure  recognition  of  the  fact 
of  death  that  life  draws  its  final  sweetness.  An 
obscure,  haunting  recognition,  of  course ;  for  if 
more  than  that,  if  the  thought  becomes  palpable, 
defined,  and  present,  it  swallows  up  everything. 


DEATH  AND  DYING  53 

The  howling  of  the  winter  wind  outside  increases 
the  warm  satisfaction  of  a  man  in  bed;  but 
this  satisfaction  is  succeeded  by  quite  another 
feeling  when  the  wind  grows  into  a  tempest,  and 
threatens  to  blow  the  house  down.  And  this 
remote  recognition  of  death  may  exist  almost  con- 
stantly in  a  man's  mind,  and  give  to  his  life  keener 
zest  and  relish.  His  lights  may  burn  the  brighter 
for  it,  and  his  wines  taste  sweeter.  For  it  is 
on  the  tapestry  of  a  dim  ground  that  the  figures 
come  in  out  the  boldest  relief  and  the  brightest 
colour. 

If  we  were  to  live  here  always,  with  no  other  care 
than  how  to  feed,  clothe,  and  house  ourselves,  life 
would  be  a  very  sorry  business.  It  is  immeasurably 
heightened  by  the  solemnity  of  death.  The  brutes 
die  even  as  we ;  but  it  is  our  knowledge  that  we 
have  to  die  which  makes  us  human.  If  nature 
cunningly  hides  death,  and  so  permits  us  to  play 
out  our  little  games,  it  is  easily  seen  that  our 
knowing  it  to  be  inevitable,  that  to  every  one  of  us 
it  will  come  one  day  or  another,  is  a  wonderful 
spur  to  action.  We  really  do  work  while  it  is 
called  to-day,  because  the  night  cometh  when  no 
man  can  work.  We  may  not  expect  it  soon — it 
may  not  have  sent  us  a  single  avant-courier — yet 
we  all  know  that  every  day  brings  it  nearer.  On 
the  supposition  that  we  were  to  live  here  always, 
there  would  be  little  inducement  to  exertion.  But, 
having  some  work  at  heart,  the  knowledge  that  we 
may  be,  any  day,  finally  interrupted,  is  an  incentive 
to  diligence.  We  naturally  desire  to  have  it  com- 
pleted, or  at  least  far  advanced  toward  completion, 


S4  DEATH  AND  DYING 

before  that  final  interruption  takes  place.  And 
knowing  that  his  existence  here  is  limited,  a  man's 
workings  have  reference  to  others  rather  than  to 
himself,  and  thereby  into  his  nature  comes  a  new 
influx  of  nobility.  If  a  man  plants  a  tree,  he  knows 
that  other  hands  than  his  will  gather  the  fruit ;  and 
when  he  plants  it,  he  thinks  quite  as  much  of  those 
<Dther  hands  as  of  his  own.  Thus  to  the  poet  there 
is  the  dearer  life  after  life;  and  posterity's  single 
laurel  leaf  is  valued  more  than  a  multitude  of  con- 
temporary bays.  Even  the  man  immersed  in 
money-making  does  not  make  money  so  much  for 
himself  as  for  those  who  may  come  after  him. 
Riches  in  noble  natures  have  a  double  sweetness. 
The  possessor  enjoys  his  wealth,  and  he  heightens 
that  enjoyment  by  an  imaginative  entrance  into  the 
pleasure  which  his  son  or  his  nephew  may  derive 
from  it  when  he  is  away,  or  the  high  uses  to  which 
he  may  turn  it.  Seeing  that  we  have  no  perpetual 
lease  of  life  and  its  adjuncts,  we  do  not  live  for 
•ourselves. 

And  thus  it  is  that  death,  which  we  are  accus- 
tomed to  consider  an  evil,  really  acts  for  us  the 
friendliest  part,  and  takes  away  the  commonplace 
•of  existence.  My  life,  and  your  life,  flowing  on 
thus  day  by  day,  is  a  vapid  enough  piece  of 
business ;  but  when  we  think  that  it  must  close,  a 
multitude  of  considerations,  not  connected  with 
ourselves,  but  with  others,  rush  in,  and  vapidity 
vanishes  at  once.  Life,  if  it  were  to  flow  on  for 
ever  and  thus,  would  stagnate  and  rot.  The  hopes, 
and  fears,  and  regrets,  which  move  and  trouble  it, 
ieep  it  fresh  and  healthy,  as  the  sea  is  kept  alive 


DEATH  AND  DYING  55 

by  the  trouble  of  its  tides.  In  a  tolerably  comfort- 
able world,  where  death  is  not,  it  is  difficult  to  see 
from  what  quarter  these  healthful  fears,  regrets,  and 
hopes  could  come.  As  it  is,  there  are  agitations  and 
sufferings  in  our  lots  enough;  but  we  must  re- 
member that  it  is  on  account  of  these  sufferings 
and  agitations  that  we  become  creatures  breathing 
thoughtful  breath.  As  has  already  been  said, 
death  takes  away  the  commonplace  of  life.  And 
positively,  when  one  looks  on  the  thousand  and  one 
poor,  foolish,  ignoble  faces  of  this  world,  and  listens 
to  the  chatter  as  poor  and  foolish  as  the  faces,  one, 
in  order  to  have  any  proper  respect  for  them,  is 
forced  to  remember  that  solemnity  of  death,  which 
is  silently  waiting.  The  foolishest  person  will  look 
grand  enough  one  day.  The  features  are  poor  now, 
but  the  hottest  tears  and  the  most  passionate 
embraces  will  not  seem  out  of  place  then.  If  you 
wish  to  make  a  man  look  noble,  your  best  course 
is  to  kill  him.  What  superiority  he  may  have 
inherited  from  his  race,  what  superiority  nature  may 
have  personally  gifted  him  with,  comes  out  in  death. 
The  passions  which  agitate,  distort,  and  change,  are 
gone  away  for  ever,  and  the  features  settle  back 
into  a  marble  calm,  which  is  the  man's  truest  image. 
Then  the  most  affected  look  sincere,  the  most 
volatile  serious — all  noble,  more  or  less.  And 
nature  will  not  be  surprised  into  disclosures.  The 
man  stretched  out  there  inay  have  been  voluble  as 
a  swallow,  but  now — when  he  could  speak  to  some 
purpose — neither  pyramid  nor  sphynx  holds  a 
secret  more  tenaciously. 

Consider,  then,  how  the  sense  of  impermanence 


56  DEATH  AND  DYING 

brightens  beauty  and  elevates  happiness.  Melan- 
choly is  always  attendant  on  beauty,  and  that 
melancholy  brings  out  its  keenness  as  the  dark 
green  corrugated  leaf  brings  out  the  wan  loveliness 
of  the  primrose.  The  spectator  enjoys  the  beauty, 
but  his  knowledge  that  //  is  fleeting,  and  that  he 
is  fleeting,  adds  a  pathetic  something  to  it;  and 
by  that  something  the  beautiful  object  and  the 
gazer  are  alike  raised. 

Everything  is  sweetened  by  risk.  The  pleasant 
emotion  is  mixed  and  deepened  by  a  sense 
of  mortality.  Those  lovers  who  have  never 
encountered  the  possibility  of  last  embraces  and 
farewells  are  novices  in  the  passion.  Sunset 
affects  us  more  powerfully  than  sunrise,  simply 
because  it  is  a  setting  sun,  and  suggests  a 
thousand  analogies.  A  mother  is  never  happier 
than  when  her  eyes  fill  over  her  sleeping  child, 
never  does  she  kiss  it  more  fondly,  never  does 
she  pray  for  it  more  fervently ;  and  yet  there  is 
more  in  her  heart  than  visible  red  cheek  and 
yellow  curl;  possession  and  bereavement  are 
strangely  mingled  in  the  exquisite  maternal  mood, 
the  one  heightening  the  other.  All  great  joys  are 
serious;  and  emotion  must  be  measured  by  its 
complexity  and  the  deepness  of  its  reach.  A 
musician  may  draw  pretty  notes  enough  from  a 
single  key,  but  the  richest  music  is  that  in  which 
the  whole  force  of  the  instrument  is  employed, 
in  the  production  of  which  every  key  is  vibrating ; 
and  although  full  of  solemn  touches  and  majestic 
tones,  the  final  effect  may  be  exuberant  and  gay. 
Pleasures  which  rise  beyond  the  mere  gratification 


DEATH  AND  DYING  57 

of  the  senses  are  dependant  for  their  exquisiteness 
on  the  number  and  variety  of  the  thoughts  which 
they  evoke.  And  that  joy  is  the  greatest  which, 
while  felt  to  be  joy,  can  include  the  thought  of  death, 
and  clothe  itself  with  that  crowning  pathos.  And 
in  the  minds  of  thoughtful  persons  every  joy  does, 
more  or  less,  with  that  crowning  pathos  clothe 
itself. 

In  life  there  is  nothing  more  unexpected  and 
surprising  than  the  arrivals  and  departures  of 
pleasure.  If  we  find  it  in  one  place  to-day,  it  is 
vain  to  seek  it  there  to-morrow.  You  cannot  lay 
a  trap  for  it.  It  will  fall  into  no  ambuscade, 
concert  it  ever  so  cunningly.  Pleasure  has  no 
logic;  it  never  treads  in  its  own  footsteps.  Into 
our  commonplace  existence  it  comes  with  a 
surprise,  like  a  pure  white  swan  from  the  airy 
void  into  the  ordinary  village  lake;  and  just  as 
the  swan,  for  no  reason  that  can  be  discovered, 
lifts  itself  on  its  wings  and  betakes  itself  to  the 
void  again,  it  leaves  us,  and  our  sole  possession 
is  its  memory.  And  it  is  characteristic  of  pleasure 
that  we  can  never  recognise  it  to  be  pleasure 
till  after  it  is  gone.  Happiness  never  lays  its 
finger  on  its  pulse.  If  we  attempt  to  steal  a 
glimpse  of  its  features,  it  disappears.  It  is  a 
gleam  of  unreckoned  gold.  From  the  nature  of 
the  case,  our  happiness,  such  as  in  its  degree 
it  has  been,  lives  in  memory.  We  have  not  the 
voice  itself ;  we  have  only  its  echo.  We  are  never 
happy;  we  can  only  remember  that  we  were  so 
once.  And  while  in  the  very  heart  and  structure 
of  the  happy  moment  there  lurked  an  obscure 


S8  DEATH  AND  DYING 

consciousness  of  death,  the  memory  in  which  past 
happiness  dwells  is  always  a  regretful  memory. 
This  is  why  the  tritest  utterance  about  the  past, 
youth,  early  love,  and  the  like,  has  always  about 
it  an  indefinable  flavour  of  poetry,  which  pleases 
and  affects.  In  the  wake  of  a  ship  there  is  always 
a  melancholy  splendour.  The  finest  set  of  verses 
of  our  modem  time  describes  how  the  poet  gazed 
on  the  "happy  autumn  fields,"  and  remembered 
the  "days  that  were  no  more."  After  all,  a 
man's  real  possession  is  his  memory.  In  nothing 
else  is  he  rich,  in  nothing  else  is  he  poor. 

In  our  warm  imaginative  youth,  death  is  far 
removed  from  us,  and  attains  thereby  a  certain 
picturesqueness.  The  grim  thought  stands  in 
the  ideal  world  as  a  ruin  stands  in  a  blooming 
landscape.  The  thought  of  death  sheds  a  pathetic 
charm  over  everything  then.  The  young  man 
•cools  himself  with  a  thought  of  the  winding-sheet 
and  the  charnel,  as  the  heated  dancer  cools 
himself  on  the  balcony  with  the  night  air.  The 
young  imagination  plays  with  the  idea  of  death, 
makes  a  toy  of  it,  just  as  a  child  plays  with  edge- 
tools  till  once  it  cuts  its.  fingers.  The  most 
lugubrious  poetry  is  written  by  very  young  and 
tolerably  comfortable  persons.  When  a  man's 
mood  becomes  really  serious  he  has  little  taste 
for  such  foolery.  The  man  who  has  a  grave  or 
two  in  his  heart,  does  not  need  to  haunt  church- 
yards. The  young  poet  uses  death  as  an  antithesis ; 
and  when  he  shocks  his  reader  by  some  flippant 
use  of  it  in  that  way,  he  considers  he  has  written 
something  mightily  fine.     In  his  gloomiest  mood 


DEATH  AND  DYING  59 

he  is  most  insincere,  most  egotistical,  most  preten- 
tious. The  older  and  wiser  poet  avoids  the 
subject  as  he  does  the  memory  of  pain ;  or,  when 
he  does  refer  to  it,  he  does  so  in  a  reverential 
manner,  and  with  some  sense  of  its  solemnity 
and  of  the  magnitude  of  its  issues.  It  was  in 
that  year  of  revelry,  1814,  and  while  undressing 
from  balls,  that  Lord  Byron  wrote  his  "  Lara,"  as 
he  informs  us.  Disrobing,  and  haunted,  in  all 
probability,  by  eyes  in  whose  light  he  was  happy 
enough,  the  spoiled  young  man,  who  then  affected 
death-pallors,  and  wished  the  world  to  believe 
that  he  felt  his  richest  wines  powdered  with  the 
dust  of  graves — of  which  wine,  notwithstanding, 
he  frequently  took  more  than  was  good  for 
him — wrote, 

"That  sleep  the  loveliest,  since  it  dreams  the  least." 

The  sleep  referred  to  being  death.  This  was 
meant  to  take  away  the  reader's  breath;  and 
after  performing  the  feat,  Byron  betook  himself 
to  his  pillow  with  a  sense  of  supreme  cleverness. 
Contrast  with  this  Shakspeare's  far  outlooking 
and  thought-heavy  lines — lines  which,  under  the 
same  image,  represent  death — 

"  To  die — to  sleep  ; — 
To  sleep  !  perchance  to  dream ; — ay,  there's  the  rub ; 
For  in  that  sleep  of  death  what  dreams  may  come  ! " 

And  you  see  at  once  how  a  man's  notions  of 
death  and  dying  are  deepened  by  a  wider 
experience.  Middle  age  may  fear  death  quite  as 
little  as  youth  fears  it ;  but  it  has  learned  serious- 


6o  DEATH  AND  DYING 

ness,  and  it  has  no  heart  to  poke  fun  at  the 
lean  ribs,  or  to  call  it  fond  names  like  a  lover, 
or  to  stick  a  primrose  in  its  grinning  chaps,  and 
draw  a  strange  pleasure  from  the  irrelevancy. 

The  man  who  has  reached  thirty,  feels  at  times 
as  if  he  had  come  out  of  a  great  battle.  Comrade 
after  comrade  has  fallen ;  his  own  life  seems  to 
have  been  charmed.  And  knowing  how  it  fared 
with  his  friends — perfect  health  one  day,  a  catarrh 
the  next,  blinds  drawn  down,  silence  in  the  house, 
blubbered  faces  of  widow  and  orphans,  intimation 
of  the  event  in  the  newspapers,  with  a  request  that 
friends  will  accept  of  it,  the  day  after — a  man,  as 
he  draws  near  middle  age,  begins  to  suspect  every 
transient  indisposition;  to  be  careful  of  being 
caught  in  a  shower,  to  shudder  at  sitting  in  wet 
shoes ;  he  feels  his  pulse,  he  anxiously  peruses  his 
face  in  a  mirror,  he  becomes  critical  as  to  the 
colour  of  his  tongue.  In  early  life  illness  is  a 
luxury,  and  draws  out  toward  the  sufferer  curious 
and  delicious  tendernesses,  which  are  felt  to  be 
a  full  over-payment  of  pain  and  weakness;  then 
there  is  the  pleasant  period  of  convalescence,  when 
one  tastes  a  core  and  marrow  of  delight  in  meats, 
drinks,  sleep,  silence ;  the  bunch  of  newly-plucked 
flowers  on  the  table,  the  sedulous  attentions  and 
patient  forbearance  of  nurses  and  friends.  Later 
in  life,  when  one  occupies  a  post,  and  is  in  dis- 
charge of  duties  which  are  accumulating  against 
recovery,  illness  and  convalescence  cease  to  be 
luxuries.  Illness  is  felt  to  be  a  cruel  interruption 
of  the  ordinary  course  of  things,  and  the  sick 
person  is  harassed  by  a  sense  of  the  loss  of  time 


DEATH  AND  DYING  6i 

and  the  loss  of  strength.  He  is  placed  hors  de 
combat;  all  the  while  he  is  conscious  that  the 
battle  is  going  on  around  him,  and  he  feels  his 
temporary  withdrawal  a  misfortune.  Of  course, 
unless  a  man  is  very  unhappily  circumstanced,  he 
has  in  his  later  illnesses  all  the  love,  patience,  and 
attention  which  sweetened  his  earlier  ones;  but 
then  he  cannot  rest  in  them,  and  accept  them  as 
before  as  compensation  in  full.  The  world  is  ever 
with  him ;  through  his  interests  and  his  affections 
he  has  meshed  himself  in  an  intricate  network  of 
relationships  and  other  dependences,  and  a  fatal 
issue — which  in  such  cases  is  ever  on  the  cards — 
would  destroy  all  these,  and  bring  about  more 
serious  matters  than  the  shedding  of  tears.  In  a 
man's  earlier  illnesses,  too,  he  had  not  only  no 
such  definite  future  to  work  out,  he  had  a  stronger 
spring  of  life  and  hope ;  he  was  rich  in  time,  and 
could  wait;  and  lying  in  his  chamber  now,  he 
cannot  help  remembering  that,  as  Mr.  Thackeray 
expresses  it,  there  comes  at  last  an  illness  to  which 
there  may  be  no  convalescence.  What  if  that 
illness  be  already  come  ?  And  so  there  is  nothing 
left  for  him,  but  to  bear  the  rod  with  patience,  and 
to  exercise  a  humble  faith  in  the  Ruler  of  all.  If 
he  recovers,  some  half-dozen  people  will  be  made 
happy ;  if  he  does  not  recover,  the  same  number 
of  people  will  be  made  miserable  for  a  little  while, 
and  during  the  next  two  or  three  days  acquaint- 
ances will  meet  in  the  street — "You've  heard  of 
poor    So-and-so  ?     Very    sudden !      Who    would 

have  thought  it  ?    Expect  to  meet  you  at 's  on 

Thursday.     Good-bye."    And  so  the  end.     Your 


«3  DEATH  AND  DYING 

death  and  ray  death  are  mainly  of  importance  to 
ourselves.  The  black  plumes  will  be  stripped  off 
our  hearses  within  the  hour;  tears  will  dry,  hurt 
hearts  close  again,  our  graves  grow  level  with  the 
churchyard,  and  although  we  are  away,  the  world 
wags  on.  It  does  not  miss  us ;  and  those  who 
are  near  us,  when  the  first  strangeness  of  vacancy 
wears  off,  will  not  miss  us  much  either. 

We  are  curious  as  to  deathbeds  and  deathbed 
sayings ;  we  wish  to  know  how  the  matter  stands ; 
how  the  whole  thing  looks  to  the  dying.  Un- 
happily— perhaps,  on  the  whole,  happily — we  can 
gather  no  information  from  these.  The  dying  are 
nearly  as  reticent  as  the  dead.  The  inferences  we 
draw  from  the  circumstances  of  death,  the  pallor, 
the  sob,  the  glazing  eye,  are  just  as  likely  to 
mislead  us  as  not  Manfred  exclaims,  "  Old  man, 
'tis  not  so  difficult  to  die ! "  Sterling  wrote  Carlyle 
"  that  it  was  all  very  strange,  yet  not  so  strange  as 
it  seemed  to  the  lookers  on."  And  so,  perhaps, 
on  the  whole  it  is.  The  world  has  lasted  six 
thousand  years  now,  and,  with  the  exception  of 
those  at  present  alive,  the  millions  who  have 
breathed  upon  it — splendid  emperors,  horny-fisted 
clowns,  little  children,  in  whom  thought  has  never 
stirred — have  died,  and  what  they  have  done,  we 
also  shall  be  able  to  do.  It  may  not  be  so 
difficult,  may  not  be  so  terrible,  as  our  fears 
whisper.  The  dead  keep  their  secrets,  and  in  a 
little  while  we  shall  be  as  wise  as  they — and  as 
taciturn. 


WILLIAM  DUNBAR. 

IF  it  be  assumed  that  the  North  Briton  is,  to 
an  appreciable  extent,  a  different  creature 
from  the  Englishman,  the  assumption  is  not  likely 
to  provoke  dispute.  No  one  will  deny  us  the  pro- 
minence of  our  cheekbones,  and  our  pride  in  the 
same.  How  far  the  difference  extends,  whether  it 
involves  merit  or  demerit,  are  questions  not  now 
sought  to  be  settled.  Nor  is  it  important  to 
discover  how  the  difference  arose ;  how  far  chiller 
climate  and  sourer  soil,  centuries  of  unequal  yet 
not  inglorious  conflict,  a  separate  race  of  kings,  a 
body  of  separate  traditions,  and  a  peculiar  crisis  of 
reformation  issuing  in  peculiar  forms  of  religious 
worship,  confirmed  and  strengthened  the  national 
idiosyncrasy.  If  a  difference  between  the  races  be 
allowed,  it  is  sufficient  for  the  present  purpose. 
That  allowed,  and  Scot  and  Southern  being  fecund 
in  literary  genius,  it  becomes  an  interesting  inquiry 
to  what  extent  the  great  literary  men  of  the  one 
race  have  influenced  the  great  literary  men  of  the 
other.  On  the  whole,  perhaps,  the  two  races  may 
fairly  cry  quits.  Not  unfrequently,  indeed,  have 
literary  influences  arisen  in  the  north  and  travelled 
63 


64  DUNBAR 

southwards.  There  were  the  Scottish  ballads,  for 
instance,  there  was  Burns,  there  was  Sir  Walter 
Scott,  there  is  Mr.  Carlyle.  The  literary  influence 
represented  by  each  of  these  arose  in  Scotland, 
and  has  either  passed  or  is  passing  "  in  music  out 
of  sight "  in  England.  The  energy  of  the  northern 
wave  has  rolled  into  the  southern  waters.  On  the 
other  hand,  we  can  mark  the  literary  influences 
travelling  from  the  south  northward.  The  English 
Chaucer  rises,  and  the  current  of  his  influence  is 
long  afterwards  visible  in  the  Scottish  King  James, 
and  the  Scottish  poet  Dunbar.  That  which  was 
Prior  and  Gay  in  London,  became  Allan  Ramsay 
when  it  reached  Edinburgh.  Inspiration,  not 
unfrequently,  has  travelled,  like  summer,  from  the 
south  northwards ;  just  as,  when  the  day  is  over, 
and  the  lamps  are  lighted  in  London,  the  radiance 
of  the  setting  sun  is  lingering  on  the  splintered 
peaks  and  rosy  friths  of  the  Hebrides.  All  this, 
however,  is  a  matter  of  the  past ;  literary  influence 
can  no  longer  be  expected  to  travel  leisurely  from 
south  to  north,  or  from  north  to  south.  In  times 
of  literary  activity,  as  at  the  beginning  of  the 
present  century,  the  atmosphere  of  passion  or 
speculation  envelopes  the  entire  island,  and  Scottish 
and  English  writers  simultaneously  draw  from  it 
what  their  peculiar  natures  prompt — ^just  as  in  the 
same  garden  the  rose  drinks  crimson  and  the  con- 
volvulus azure  from  the  superincumbent  air. 

Chaucer  must  always  remain  a  name  in  British 
literary  history.  He  appeared  at  a  time  when  the 
Saxon  and  Norman  races  had  become  fused,  and 
when  ancient  bitternesses  were  lost  in  the  proud 


DUNBAR  65 

title  of  Englishman.  He  was  the  first  great  poet 
the  island  produced;  and  he  wrote  for  the  most 
part  in  the  language  of  the  people,  with  just  the 
slightest  infusion  of  the  courtlier  Norman  element, 
which  gives  to  his  writings  something  of  the  high- 
bred air  that  the  short  upper  lip  gives  to  the  human 
countenance.  In  his  earlier  poems  he  was  under 
the  influence  of  the  Provencal  Troubadours,  and 
in  his  "  Flower  and  the  Leaf,"  and  other  works  of 
a  similar  class,  he  riots  in  allegory ;  he  represents 
the  cardinal  virtues  walking  about  in  human  shape ; 
his  forests  are  full  of  beautiful  ladies  with  coronals 
on  their  heads ;  courts  of  love  are  held  beneath 
the  spreading  elm,  and  metaphysical  goldfinches 
and  nightingales,  perched  among  the  branches 
green,  wrangle  melodiously  about  the  tender 
passion. 

In  these  poems  he  is  fresh,  charming,  fanciful 
as  the  spring-time  itself:  ever  picturesque,  ever 
musical,  and  with  a  homely  touch  and  stroke 
of  irony  here  and  there,  suggesting  a  depth  of 
serious  matter  in  him  which  it  needed  years  only 
to  develop.  He  lived  in  a  brilliant  and  stirring 
time ;  he  was  connected  with  the  court ;  he  served 
in  armies  ;  he  visited  the  Continent ;  and  although 
a  silent  man,  he  carried  with  him,  wherever  he 
went,  and  into  whatever  company  he  was  thrown, 
the  most  observant  eyes  perhaps  that  ever  looked 
curiously  out  upon  the  world.  There  was  nothing 
too  mean  or  too  trivial  for  his  regard.  After  part- 
ing with  a  man,  one  fancies  that  he  knew  every  line 
and  wrinkle  of  his  face,  had  marked  the  travel- 
stains  on  his  boots,  and  had  counted  the  slashes  on 
5 


66  DUNBAR 

his  doublet.  And  so  it  was  that,  after  mixing  in 
kings'  courts,  and  sitting  with  friars  in  taverns,  and 
talking  with  people  on  country  roads,  and  travelling 
in  France  and  Italy,  and  making  himself  master  of 
the  literature,  science,  and  theology  of :  his  time, 
and  when  perhaps  touched  with  misfortune  and 
sorrow,  he  came  to  see  the  depth  of  interest  that 
resides  in  actual  life, — that  the  rudest  clown  even, 
with  his  sordid  humours  and  coarse  speech,  is 
intrinsically  more  valuable  than  a  whole  forest  full 
of  goddesses,  or  innumerable  processions  of  cardinal 
virtues,  however  well  mounted  and  splendidly 
attired. 

It  was  in  some  such  mood  of  mind  that  Chaucer 
penned  those  unparalleled  pictures  of  contem- 
porary life  that  delight  yet,  after  five  centuries 
have  come  and  gone.  It  is  difficult  to  define 
Chaucer's  charm.  He  does  not  indulge  in  fine 
sentiment;  he  has  no  bravura  passages;  he  is 
ever  master  of  himself  and  of  his  subject.  The 
light  upon  his  page  is  the  light  of  common  day. 
Although  powerful  delineations  of  passion  may 
be  found  in  his  Tales  and  wonderful  descriptions 
of  nature,  and  although  certain  of  the  passages 
relating  to  Constance  and  Griselda  in  their  deep 
distresses  are  unrivalled  in  tenderness,  neither 
passion,  nor  natural  description,  nor  pathos,  are 
his  striking  characteristics.  It  is  his  shrewdness, 
his  conciseness,  his  ever-present  humour,  his  fre- 
quent irony,  and  his  short,  homely  line — effective 
as  the  play  of  the  short  Roman  sword — which 
strikes  the  reader  most.  In  the  "  Prologue  to  the 
Canterbury  Tales  " — by  far  the  ripest  thing  he  has 


DUNBAR  67 

done — he  seems  to  be  writing  the  easiest,  most 
idiomatic  prose,  but  it  is  poetry  all  the  while.  He 
is  a  poet  of  natural  manner,  dealing  with  outdoor 
life.  Perhaps,  on  the  whole,  the  writer  who  most 
resembles  him — superficial  differences  apart — is 
Fielding.  In  both  there  is  constant  shrewdness 
and  common  sense,  a  constant  feeling  of  the  comic 
side  of  things,  a  moral  instinct  which  escapes  in 
irony,  never  in  denunciation  or  fanaticism ;  no 
remarkable  spirituality  of  feeling,  an  acceptance  of 
the  world  as  a  pleasant  enough  place,  provided 
good  dinners  and  a  sufficiency  of  cash  are  to  be 
had,  and  that  healthy  relish  for  fact  and  reality, 
and  scorn  of  humbug  of  all  kinds,  especially  of 
that  particular  phase  of  it  which  makes  one  appear 
better  than  one  is,  which — for  want  of  a  better 
term — we  are  accustomed  to  call  English.  Chaucer 
was  a  Conservative  in  all  his  feelings ;  he  liked  to 
poke  his  fun  at  the  clergy,  but  he  was  not  of  the 
stuff"  of  which  martyrs  are  made.  He  loved  good 
eating  and  drinking,  and  studious  leisure  and 
peace;  and  although  in  his  ordinary  moods 
shrewd,  and  observant,  and  satirical,  his  higher 
genius  would  now  and  then  splendidly  assert 
itself — and  behold  the  tournament  at  Athens, 
where  kings  are  combatants  and  Emily  the  prize  ; 
or  the  little  boat,  containing  the  brain-bewildered 
Constance  and  her  child,  wandering  hither  and 
thither  on  the  friendly  sea. 

Chaucer  was  born  about  1328,  and  died  about 
1380;  and  although  he  had,  both  in  Scotland  and 
England,  contemporaries  and  immediate  successors, 
no  one  of  them  can  be  compared  with  him  for  a 


68  DUNBAR 

moment.  The  "Moral  Gower"  was  his  friend, 
and  inherited  his  tediousness  and  pedantry  with- 
out a  sparkle  of  his  fancy,  passion,  humour, 
wisdom,  and  good  spirits.  Occleve  and  Lydgate 
followed  in  the  next  generation ;  and  although 
their  names  are  retained  in  Hterary  histories,  no 
line  or  sentence  of  theirs  has  found  a  place  in 
human  memory.  The  Scottish  contemporary  of 
Chaucer  was  Barbour,  who,  although  deficient  in 
tenderness  and  imagination,  deserves  praise  for  his 
sinewy  and  occasionally  picturesque  verse.  "  The 
Bruce  "  is  really  a  fine  poem.  The  hero  is  noble, 
resolute,  and  wise.  Sir  James  Douglas  is  a  veiy 
perfect,  gentle  knight.  The  old  Churchman  had 
the  true  poetic  fire  in  him.  He  rises  into  eloquence 
in  an  apostrophe  to  Freedom,  and  he  fights  the 
battle  of  Bannockburn  over  again  with  great 
valour,  shouting,  and  flapping  of  standards.  In 
England,  nature  seemed  to  have  exhausted  her- 
self in  Chaucer,  and  she  lay  quiescent  till  Lord 
Surrey  and  Sir  Thomas  Wyatt  came,  the  immediate 
precursors  of  Spenser,  Shakspeare,  and  their 
companions. 

While  in  England  the  note  of  the  nightingale 
suddenly  ceased,  to  be  succeeded  by  the  mere 
chirping  of  barn-door  sparrows,  the  divine  and 
melancholy  voice  began  to  be  heard  farther  north. 
It  was  during  that  most  barren  period  of  English 
poetry — extending  from  Chaucer's  death  till  the 
beginning  of  Elizabeth's  reign — that  Scottish  poetry 
arose,  suddenly,  splendidly — to  be  matched  only 
by  that  other  uprising  nearer  our  own  time,  equally 
unexpected  and  splendid,   of  Burns   and   Scott. 


DUNBAR  69 

And  it  is  curious  to  notice  in  this  brilliant  out- 
burst of  northern  genius  how  much  is  owing  to 
Chaucer:  the  cast  of  language  is  identical,  the 
literary  form  is  the  same,  there  is  the  same  way  of 
looking  at  nature,  the  same  allegorical  forests,  the 
troops  of  ladies,  the  same  processions  of  cardinal 
virtues.  James  i,,  whose  long  captivity  in  England 
made  him  acquainted  with  Chaucer's  works,  was  the 
leader  of  the  poetic  movement  which  culminated 
in  Dunbar,  and  died  away  in  Sir  David  Lindsay 
just  before  the  noise  and  turmoil  of  the  Reforma- 
tion set  in.  In  the  concluding  stanza  of  the 
"  Quair,"  James  records  his  obligation  to  those — 

"  Masters  dear, 
Gower  and  Chaucer,  that  on  the  steppes  sate 

Of  retorick,  while  they  were  livand  here, 
Superlative  as  poets  laureate 
Of  morality  and  eloquence  ornate." 

But  while,  during  the  reigns  of  the  Jameses, 
Scottish  genius  was  being  acted  upon  by  the 
broader  and  deeper  genius  of  England,  Scotland, 
quite  unconsciously  to  herself,  was  preparing  a 
liquidation  in  full  of  all  spiritual  obligations.  For 
even  then,  in  obscure  nooks  and  corners,  the 
Scottish  ballads  were  growing  up,  quite  uncon- 
trolled by  critical  rules,  rude  in  structure  and 
expression,  yet,  at  the  same  time,  full  of  vitality, 
retaining  in  all  their  keenness  the  mirth  of  rustic 
festivals,  and  the  piteousness  of  domestic  tragedies. 
The  stormy  feudal  time  out  of  which  they  arose 
crumbled  by  process  of  gradual  decay,  but  they 
remained,  made  brighter  by  each  succeeding 
summer,  like  the  wild-flowers  that  blow  in   the 


TO  DUNBAR 

chinks  of  ruins.  And  when  English  poetry  had 
become  artificial  and  cold,  the  lucubrations  of 
forgotten  Scottish  minstrels,  full  of  the  touches 
that  make  the  whole  world  kin,  brought  new  life 
with  them.  Scotland  had  invaded  England  more 
than  once,  but  the  blue  bonnets  never  went  over 
the  Border  so  triumphantly  as  when  they  did  so  in 
the  shape  of  songs  and  ballads. 

James  iv.,  if  not  the  wisest,  was  certainly  the 
most  brilliant  monarch  of  his  name ;  and  he  was 
fortunate  beyond  the  later  Stuarts  in  this,  that 
during  his  lifetime  no  new  popular  tide  had  set 
in  which  it  behoved  him  to  oppose  or  to  Hoat 
upon.  For  him  in  all  its  essentials  to-day  had 
flowed  quietly  out  of  yesterday,  and  he  lived 
unperplexed  by  fear  of  change.  With  something 
of  a  Southern  gaiety  of  spirit,  he  was  a  merrier 
monarch  than  his  dark-featured  and  saturnine 
descendant  who  bore  the  appellation.  He  was 
fond  of  martial  sports,  he  loved  to  glitter  at  tourna- 
ments, his  court  was  crowded  with  singing  men 
and  singing  women.  Yet  he  had  his  gloomy 
moods  and  superstitious  despondencies.  He  could 
not  forget  that  he  had  appeared  in  arms  against 
his  father ;  even  while  he  whispered  in  the  ear  of 
beauty,  the  iron  belt  of  penance  was  fretting  his 
side,  and  he  alternated  the  splendid  revel  with  the 
cell  of  the  monk.  In  these  days,  and  for  long 
after,  the  Borders  were  disturbed,  and  the  High- 
land clans,  setting  royal  authority  at  defiance,  were 
throttling  each  other  in  their  mists.  The  Catholic 
religion  was  yet  unsapped,  and  the  wealth  of  the 
country  resided  in  the  hands  of  the  nobles  and  the 


DUNBAR  71 

churchmen.  Edinburgh  towered  high  on  the 
ridge  between  Kolyrood  and  the  Castle,  its 
streets  reddened  with  feud  at  intervals,  and  its 
merchants  clustering  round  the  Cathedral  of  St. 
Giles  like  bees  in  a  honeycomb ;  and  the  king, 
when  he  looked  across  the  faint  azure  of  the 
Forth,  beheld  the  long  coast  of  Fife  dotted  with 
little  towns,  where  ships  were  moored  that  traded 
with  France  and  Holland,  and  brought  with  them 
cargoes  of  silks  and  wines.  James  was  a  popular 
monarch;  he  was  beloved  by  the  nobles  and  by 
the  people.  He  loved  justice,  he  cultivated  his 
marine,  and  he  built  the  Great  Michael — the 
Great  Eastern  of  that  day.  He  had  valiant  seamen, 
and  more  than  once  Barton  sailed  into  Leith  with 
a  string  of  English  prizes.  When  he  fell  with  all 
his  nobility  at  Flodden,  there  came  upon  Scotland 
the  woe  with  which  she  was  so  familiar — 

"  Woe  to  that  realme  that  haith  an  ower  young  king." 

A  long  regency  followed ;  disturbing  elements  of 
religion  entered  into  the  life  of  the  nation,  and  the 
historical  stream  which  had  flowed  smoothly  for  a 
series  of  years  became  all  at  once  convulsed  aiKi 
turbulent,  as  if  it  had  entered  upon  a  gorge  of 
rapids.  It  was  in  this  pleasant  interregnum  of 
the  reign  of  the  fourth  James,  when  ancient 
disorders  had  to  a  certain  extent  been  repressed, 
and  when  religious  diflficulties  ahead  were  yet 
undreamed  of,  that  the  poet  Dunbar  flourished — a 
nightingale  singing  in  a  sunny  lull  of  the  Scottish 
historical  storm. 

Modern   readers   are   acquainted  with   Dunbar 


72  DUNBAR 

chiefly  through  the  medium  of  Mr.  David  Laing's 
beautiful  edition  of  his  works  pubUshed  in  1834, 
and  by  good  Dr.  Irving's  intelHgent  and  admirable 
compacted  History  of  Scottish  Poetry,  published 
the  other  day.  Irving's  work,  if  deficient  some- 
what in  fluency  and  grace  of  style,  is  characterised 
by  conscientiousness  of  statement  and  by  the 
ripest  knowledge.  Yet,  despite  the  researches  of 
these  competent  writers,  of  the  events  of  the  poet's 
life  not  much  is  known.  He  was  born  about  1460, 
and  from  an  unquotable  allusion  in  one  of  his 
poems,  he  is  supposed  to  have  been  a  native  of 
the  Lothians.  His  name  occurs  in  the  register  of 
the  University  of  St.  Andrews  as  a  Bachelor  of 
Arts. 

With  the  exception  of  these  entries  in  the 
college  register,  there  is  nothing  authentically 
known  of  his  early  life.  We  have  no  portrait  of 
him,  and  cannot  by  that  means  decipher  him. 
We  do  not  know  with  certainty  from  what  family 
he  sprang.  Beyond  what  light  his  poems  may 
throw  on  them,  we  have  no  knowledge  of  his 
habits  and  personal  tastes.  He  exists  for  the  most 
part  in  rumour,  and  the  vague  shadows  of  things. 
It  appears  that  in  early  life  he  became  a  friar  of 
the  order  of  St.  Francis ;  and  in  the  capacity  of  a 
travelling  priest  he  tells  us  that  "  he  preached  in 
Derntown  kirk  and  in  Canterbury";  that  he 
"passed  at  Dover  across  the  Channel,  and  went 
through  Picardy  teaching  the  people."  He  does 
not  seem  to  have  taken  kindly  to  his  profession. 
His  works  are  full  of  sarcastic  allusions  to  the 
clergy,  and  in  no  measured  terms  he  denounces 


DUNBAR  73 

their  luxury,  their  worldly-mindedness,  and  their 
desire  for  high  place  and  fat  livings.  Yet  these 
denunciations  have  no  very  spiritual  origin.  His 
rage  is  the  rage  of  a  disappointed  candidate,  rather 
than  of  a  prophet;  and,  to  the  last,  he  seems  to 
have  expected  preferment  in  the  Church.  Not 
without  a  certain  pathos  he  writes,  when  he  had 
become  familiar  with  disappointment  and  the 
sickness  of  hope  deferred — 

"I  wes  in  youth  an  nureiss  knee, 
Dandely  !  bischop,  dandely  ! 
And  quhen  that  age  now  dois  me  greif, 
Ane  sempill  vicar  I  can  nocht  be." 

It  is  not  known  when  he  entered  the  service  of 
King  James.  From  his  poems  it  appears  that  he 
was  employed  as  a  clerk  or  secretary  in  several  of 
the  missions  despatched  to  foreign  courts.  It  is 
difficult  to  guess  in  what  capacity  Dunbar  served 
at  Holyrood.  He  was  all  his  life  a  priest,  and 
expected  preferment  from  his  royal  patron.  We 
know  that  he  performed  mass  in  the  presence. 
Yet  when  the  king  in  one  of  his  dark  moods  had 
withdrawn  from  the  gaieties  of  the  capital  to  the 
religious  gloom  of  the  convent  of  Franciscans  at 
Stirling,  we  find  the  poet  inditing  a  parody  on  the 
n[iachinery  of  the  Church,  calling  on  Father,  Son, 
and  Holy  Spirit,  and  on  all  the  saints  of  the 
calendar,  to  transport  the  princely  penitent  from 
Stirling,  "where  ale  is  thin  and  small,"  to 
Edinburgh,  where  there  is  abundance  of  swans, 
cranes,  and  plovers,  and  the  fragrant  clarets  of 
France.  And  in  another  of  his  poems  he 
describes    himself    as    dancing    in    the    queen's 


74  DUNBAR 

chamber  so  zealously  that  he  lost  one  of  his 
slippers,  a  mishap  which  provoked  her  Majesty 
to  great  mirth.  Probably,  as  the  king  was 
possessed  of  considerable  literary  taste,  and 
could  appreciate  Dunbar's  fancy  and  satire,  he 
kept  him  attached  to  his  person,  with  the  inten- 
tion of  conferring  a  benefice  on  him  when  one 
fell  vacant;  and  when  a  benefice  did  fall  vacant, 
felt  compelled  to  bestow  it  on  the  cadet  of  some 
powerful  family  in  the  state, — for  it  was  always  the 
policy  of  James  to  stand  well  with  his  nobles. 
He  remembered  too  well  the  deaths  of  his  father 
and  great-grandfather  to  give  unnecessary  offence 
to  his  great  barons.  From  his  connection  with  the 
court,  the  poet's  life  may  be  briefly  epitomised. 
In  August  1500,  his  royal  master  granted  Dunbar 
an  annual  pension  of  ;^io  for  life,  or  till  such 
time  as  he  should  be  promoted  to  a  benefice  of 
the  annual  value  of  £,\o.  In  1501,  he  visited 
England  in  the  train  of  the  ambassadors  sent 
thither  to  negotiate  the  king's  marriage.  The 
marriage  took  place  in  May  1503,  on  which 
occasion  the  high-piled  capital  wore  holiday  attire, 
balconies  blazed  with  scarlet  cloth,  and  the  loyal 
multitude  shouted  as  bride  and  bridegroom  rode 
past,  with  the  chivalry  of  two  kingdoms  in  their 
train.  Early  in  May,  Dunbar  composed  his  most 
celebrated  poem  in  honour  of  the  event.  Next 
year  he  said  mass  in  the  king's  presence  for  the 
first  time,  and  received  a  liberal  reward.  In  1505, 
he  received  a  sum  in  addition  to  his  stated 
pension,  and  two  years  thereafter  his  pension  was 
doubled.     In  August   15 10,   his  pension  was  in 


DUNBAR  75 

creased  to  ;^8o  per  annum,  until  he  became 
possessed  of  a  benefice  of  the  annual  value 
of  p^ioo  or  upwards.  In  15 13,  Flodden  was 
fought,  and  in  the  confusion  consequent  on 
the  king's  death,  Dunbar  and  his  slowly  increas- 
ing pensions  disappear  from  the  records  of 
things.  We  do  not  know  whether  he  received 
his  benefice;  we  do  not  know  the  date  of  his 
death,  and  to  this  day  his  grave  is  secret  as  the 
grave  of  Moses. 

Knowing  but  little  of  Dunbar's  life,  our  interest 
is  naturally  concentrated  on  what  of  his  writings 
remain  to  us.  And  to  modern  eyes  the  old  poet 
is  a  singular  spectacle.  His  language  is  different 
from  ours ;  his  mental  structure  and  modes  of 
thought  are  unfamiliar;  in  his  intellectual  world, 
as  we  map  it  out  to  ourselves,  it  is  difficult  to 
conceive  how"  a  comfortable  existence  could  be 
attained.  Times,  manners,  and  ideas  have  changed, 
and  we  look  upon  Dunbar  with  a  certain  reverential 
wonder  and  curiosity  as  we  look  upon  Tantallon, 
standing  up,  grim  and  grey,  in  the  midst  of  the 
modern  landscape.  The  grand  old  fortress  is  a 
remnant  of  a  state  of  things  which  have  utterly 
passed  away.  Curiously,  as  we  walk  beside  it, 
we  think  of  the  actual  human  life  its  walls  con- 
tained. In  those  great  fireplaces  logs  actually 
burned  once,  and  in  winter  nights  men-at-arms 
spread  out  big  palms  against  the  grateful  heat. 
In  those  empty  apartments  was  laughter,  and 
feasting,  and  serious  talk  enough  in  troublous 
times,  and  births,  and  deaths,  and  the  bringing 
home   of    brides   in   their    blushes.     This   empty 


76  DUNBAR 

moat  was  filled  with  water,  to  keep  at  bay  long- 
forgotten  enemies,  and  yonder  loophole  was  made 
narrow,  as  a  protection  from  long-moulded  arrows. 
In  Tantallon  we  know  the  Douglasses  lived  in 
state,  and  bearded  kings,  and  hung  out  banners 
to  the  breeze ;  but  a  sense  of  wonder  is  mingled 
with  our  knowledge,  for  the  bothy  of  the  Lothian 
farmer  is  even  more  in  accordance  with  our 
methods  of  conducting  life.  Dunbar  affects  us 
similarly.  We  know  that  he  possessed  a  keen 
intellect,  a  blossoming  fancy,  a  satiric  touch  that 
blistered,  a  melody  that  enchanted  Northern  ears ; 
but  then  we  have  lost  the  story  of  his  life,  and 
from  his  poems,  with  their  wonderful  contrasts, 
the  delicacy  and  spring-like  flush  of  feeling,  the 
piety,  the  freedom  of  speech,  the  irreverent  use 
of  the  sacredest  names,  the  "Flyting"  and  the 
"Lament  for  the  Makars,"  there  is  difficulty  in 
making  one's  ideas  of  him  cohere.  He  is  present 
to  the  imagination,  and  yet  remote.  Like  Tantallon, 
he  is  a  portion  of  the  past.  We  are  separated 
from  him  by  centuries,  and  that  chasm  we  are 
unable  to  bridge  properly. 

The  first  thing  that  strikes  the  reader  of  these 
poems  is  their  variety  and  intellectual  range.  It 
may  be  said  that — partly  from  constitutional  turn 
of  thought,  partly  from  the  turbulent  and  chaotic 
time  in  which  he  lived,  when  families  rose  to 
splendour  and  as  suddenly  collapsed,  when  the 
steed  that  bore  his  rider  at  morning  to  the  hunting- 
field  returned  at  evening  masterless  to  the  castle- 
gate  —  Dunbar's  prevailing  mood  of  mind  is 
melancholy;  that  he,  with  a  certain  fondness  for 


DUNBAR  77 

the  subject,  as  if  it  gave  him  actual  relief,  moralised 
over  the  sandy  foundations  of  mortal  prosperity, 
the  advance  of  age  putting  out  the  lights  of 
youth,  and  cancelling  the  rapture  of  the  lover, 
and  the  certainty  of  death.  This  is  a  favourite 
path  of  contemplation  with  him,  and  he  pursues 
it  with  a  gloomy  sedateness  of  acquiescence,  which 
is  more  affecting  than  if  he  raved  and  foamed 
against  the  inevitable.  But  he  has  the  mobility 
of  the  poetic  nature,  and  the  sad  ground-tone  is 
often  drowned  in  the  ecstasy  of  lighter  notes.  All 
at  once  the  "  bare  ruined  choirs  "  are  covered  with 
the  glad  light-green  of  spring.  His  genius  com- 
bined the  excellences  of  many  masters. 

His  "  Golden  Targe  "  and  the  "  Thistle  and  the 
Rose  "  are  allegorical  poems,  full  of  colour,  fancy, 
and  music.  His  "Two  Married  Women  and  the 
Widow"  has  a  good  deal  of  Chaucer's  slyness 
and  humour.  "  The  Dance  of  the  Deadly  Sins," 
with  its  fiery  bursts  of  imaginative  energy,  its 
pictures  finished  at  a  stroke,  is  a  prophecy  of 
Spenser  and  Collins,  and  as  fine  as  anything 
they  have  accomplished;  while  his  "Flytings" 
are  torrents  of  the  coarsest  vituperation.  And 
there  are  whole  flights  of  occasional  poems,  many 
of  them  sombre-coloured  enough,  with  an  ever- 
recurring  mournful  refrain,  others  satirical,  but 
all  flung  off,  one  can  see,  at  a  sitting ;  in  the  few 
verses  the  mood  is  exhausted,  and  while  the 
result  remains,  the  cause  is  forgotten  even  by 
himself.  Several  of  these  short  poems  are 
almost  perfect  in  feeling  and  execution.  The 
melancholy    ones    are    full    of  a    serious    grace. 


78  DUNBAR 

while  in  the  satirical  a  laughing  devil  of  glee  and 
malice  sparkles  in  every  line.  Some  of  these 
latter  are  dangerous  to  touch  as  a  thistle — all 
bristling  and  angry  with  the  spikes  of  satiric 
scorn. 

In  his  allegorical  poems — "  The  Golden  Targe," 
"  The  Merle  and  the  Nightingale,"  "  The  Thistle 
and  the  Rose," — Dunbar's  fancy  has  full  scope. 
As  allegories,  they  are,  perhaps,  not  worth  much ; 
at  all  events,  modern  readers  do  not  care  for  the 
adventures  of  "Quaking  Dread  and  Humble 
Obedience  " ;  nor  are  they  affected  by  descriptions 
of  Beauty,  attended  by  her  damsels,  Fair  Having, 
Fine  Portraiture,  Pleasance,  and  Lusty  Cheer. 
The  whole  conduct  and  machinery  of  such  things 
are  too  artificial  and  stilted  for  modern  tastes. 
Stately  masques  are  no  longer  performed  in  earls' 
mansions ;  and  when  a  sovereign  enters  a  city,  a 
fair  lady,  with  wings,  representing  Loyalty,  does 
not  burst  out  of  a  pasteboard  cloud  and  recite  a 
poetical  address  to  Majesty.  In  our  theatres  the 
pantomime,  which  was  originally  an  adumbration 
of  human  life,  has  become  degraded.  Symbolism 
has  departed  from  the  boards,  and  burlesque 
reigns  in  its  stead.  The  Lord  Mayor's  Show, 
the  last  remnant  of  the  antique  spectacular  taste, 
does  not  move  us  now ;  it  is  held  a  public  nuisance ; 
it  provokes  the  rude  "chaff"  of  the  streets.  Our 
very  mobs  have  become  critical.  Gog  and  Magog 
are  dethroned.  The  knight  feels  the  satiric  com- 
ments through  his  armour.  The  very  steeds  are 
uneasy,  as  if  ashamed.  But  in  Dunbar  the 
allegorical  machinery  is  saved  from  contempt  by 


DUNBAR  79 

colour,  poetry,  and  music.  Quick  surprises  of 
beauty,  and  a  rapid  succession  of  pictures,  keep 
the  attention  awake.     Now  it  is — 

"  May,  of  mirthful  monethis  queen, 
Betwixt  April  and  June,  her  sisters  sheen, 
Within  the  garden  walking  up  and  down." 

Now — 

"  The  god  of  windis,  Eolus, 
With  variand  look,  richt  like  a  lord  unstable.' 

Now  the  nightingale — 

"Never  sweeter  noise  was  heard  with  livin'  man, 
Nor  made  this  merry,  gentle  nightingale ; 
Her  sound  went  with  the  river  as  it  ran 
Out  throw  the  fresh  and  flourished  lusty  vale." 

And  now  a  spring  morning — 

"  Ere  Phoebus  was  in  purple  cape  revest, 
Up  raise  the  lark,  the  heaven's  minstrel  fine 
In  May,  in  till  a  morrow  mirthfullest. 

"Full  angel-Iike  thir  birdis  sang  their  hours 
Within  their  curtains  green,  in  to  their  bours, 
Apparelled  white  and  red  with  bloomes  sweet ; 
Enamelled  was  the  field  with  all  colours. 
The  pearly  droppis  shook  in  silver  shours ; 
While  all  in  balm  did  branch  and  leavis  fleet. 
To  part  fra  Phcebus  did  Aurora  greet. 
Her  crystal  tears  I  saw  hing  on  the  flours, 
Whilk  he  for  love  all  drank  up  with  his  heat. 

*'  For  mirth  of  May,  with  skippis  and  with  hops 
The  birdis  sang  upon  the  tender  crops. 
With  curious  notes,  as  Venus'  chapel  clerks ; 
The  roses  young,  new  spreading  of  their  knops. 
Were  powderit  bricht  with  heavenly  beriall  drops. 


8o  DUNBAR 

Through  beames  red,  burning  as  ruby  sparks ; 
The  skies  rang  for  shouting  of  the  larks, 
The  purple  heaven  once  scal't  in  silver  slops, 
Oure  gilt  the  trees,  branches,  leaves,  and  barks." 

The  finest  of  Dunbar's  poems  in  this  style  is 
the  "Thistle  and  the  Rose."  It  was  written  in 
celebration  of  the  marriage  of  James  with  the 
Princess  Margaret  of  England,  and  the  royal  pair 
are  happily  represented  as  the  national  emblems. 
It,  of  course,  opens  with  a  description  of  a  spring 
morning.  Dame  Nature  resolves  that  every  bird, 
beast,  and  flower  should  compeer  before  her 
highness;  the  roe  is  commanded  to  summon 
the  animals,  the  restless  swallow  the  birds,  and 
the  "conjured"  yarrow  the  herbs  and  flowers. 
In  the  twinkling  of  an  eye  they  stand  before  the 
queen.  The  lion  and  the  eagle  are  crowned,  and 
are  instructed  to  be  humble  and  just,  and  to 
exercise  their  powers  mercifully: 

"Then  callit  she  all  flouris  that  grew  in  field. 
Discerning  all  their  seasons  and  effeirs, 
Upon  the  awful  thistle  she  beheld 
And  saw  him  keepit  with  a  bush  of  spears : 
Consid'ring  him  so  able  for  the  weirs, 
A  radius  crown  of  rubies  she  him  gave, 
And  said,  *In  field,  go  forth  and  fend  the  lave.'" 

The  rose  also  is  crowned,  and  the  poet  gives 
utterance  to  the  universal  joy  on  occasion  of  the 
marriage — type  of  peace  between  two  kingdoms. 
Listen  to  the  rich  music  of  according  voices : 

"Then  all  the  birds  sang  with  voice  on  hicht, 
Whose  mirthful  soun'  was  marvellous  to  hear; 


DUNBAR  8i 

The  mavis  sang,  Hail  Rose,  most  rich  and  richt. 
That  does  up  flourish  under  Phoebus'  sphere, 
Hail  plant  of  youth,  hail  Princess,  dochter  dear ; 

Hail  blosom  breaking  out  of  the  bluid  royal, 

Whose  precious  virtue  is  imperial. 

"The  merle  she  sang,   Hail  Rose  of  most  delight, 
Plail,  of  all  floris  queen  an'  sovereign  ! 

The  lark  she  sang,  Hail  Rose  both  red  and  white ; 
Most  pleasant  flower,  of  michty  colours  twane : 
The  nichtingale  sang.  Hail,  Nature's  suffragane, 

In  beauty,  nurture,  and  every  nobleness, 

In  rich  array,  renown,  and  gentleness. 

"  The  common  voice  up  raise  of  birdes  small, 
Upon  this  wise,  Oh,  blessit  be  the  hour 

That  thou  was  chosen  to  be  our  principal ! 
Welcome  to  be  our  Princess  of  honour, 
Our  pearl,  our  pleasance,  and  our  paramour, 

Our  peace,  our  play,  our  plain  felicity  ; 

Christ  thee  comfort  from  all  adversity." 

But  beautiful  as  these  poems  are,  it  is  as  a 
satirist  that  Dunbar  has  performed  his  greatest 
feats.  He  was  by  nature  "dowered  with  the 
scorn  of  scorn,"  and  its  edge  was  whetted  by  life- 
long disappointment.     Like  Spenser,  he  knew — 

"  What  Hell  it  is  in  suing  long  to  bide." 

And  even  in  poems  where  the  mood  is  melan- 
choly, where  the  burden  is  the  shortness  of  life 
and  the  unpermanence  of  felicity,  his  satiric  rage 
breaks  out  in  single  lines  of  fire.  And  although 
his  satire  is  often  almost  inconceivably  coarse, 
the  prompting  instinct  is  healthy  at  bottom.  He 
hates  Vice,  although  his  hand  is  too  often  in  the 
kennel  to  pelt  her  withal.  He  lays  his  grasp  on 
6  # 


8a  DUNBAR 

the  bridle-rein  of  the  sleek  prelate,  and  upbraids 
him  with  his  secret  sins  in  language  unsuited  to 
modern  ears.  His  greater  satires  have  a  wild 
sheen  of  imagination  about  them.  They  are 
far  from  being  cold  moral  homilies.  His  wrath 
or  his  contempt  breaks  through  the  bounds  of 
time  and  space,  and  brings  the  spiritual  world 
on  the  stage.  He  wishes  to  rebuke  the  citizens 
of  Edinburgh  for  their  habits  of  profane  swearing, 
and  the  result  is  a  poem,  which  probably  gave 
Coleridge  the  hint  of  his  "Devil's  Walk." 
Dunbar's  satire  is  entitled  the  "  Devil's  Inquest." 
He  represents  the  Fiend  passing  up  through  the 
market,  and  chuckling  as  he  listens  to  the  strange 
oaths  of  cobbler,  maltman,  tailor,  courtier,  and 
minstrel.  He  comments  on  what  he  hears  and 
sees  with  great  pleasantry  and  satisfaction.  Here 
is  the  conclusion  of  the  piece  : 

"Ane  thief  said,  God  that  ever  I  chaip, 
Nor  ane  stark  widdy  gar  me  gaip, 

But  I  in  hell  for  geir  wald  be. 
The  Devil  said,  '  Welcome  in  a  raip : 

Renounce  thy  God,  and  cum  to  me.' 

"The  fishwives  flet  and  swore  writh  granes, 
And  to  the  Fiend  saul  flesh  and  banes ; 

They  gave  them,  with  ane  shout  on  hie. 
The  Devil  said,  '  Welcome  all  at  anes : 

Renounce  your  God,  and  cum  to  me.' 

"  The  rest  of  craftis  great  aiths  swair, 
Their  wark  and  craft  had  nae  compair, 

Ilk  ane  unto  their  qualitie. 
The  Devil  said  then,  v/ithouten  mair, 

'  Renounce  your  God,  and  cum  to  me.'" 


DUNBAR  83 

But  the  greatest  of  Dunbar's  satires — in  fact, 
the  greatest  of  all  his  poems — is  that  entitled 
"The  Dance  of  the  Seven  Deadly  Sins."  It  is 
short,  but  within  its  compass  most  swift,  vivid, 
and  weird.  The  pictures  rise  on  the  reader's 
eye,  and  fade  at  once.  It  is  a  singular  compound 
of  farce  and  earnest.  It  is  Spenser  and  Hogarth 
combined — the  wildest  grotesquerie  wrought  on 
a  background  of  penal  flame.  The  poet  conceives 
himself  in  a  dream,  on  the  evening  preceding 
Lent,  and  in  his  vision  he  heard  Mahoun  com- 
mand that  the  wretched  who  "had  ne'er  been 
shriven  "  should  dance  before  him.  Immediately 
a  hideous  rout  present  themselves ;  "  holy  harlots  " 
appear  in  their  finery,  and  never  a  smile  wrinkles 
the  faces  of  the  onlookers ;  but  when  a  string  of 
"priests  with  their  shaven  necks"  come  in,  the 
arches  of  the  unnameable  place  shakes  with  the 
laughter  of  all  the  fiends.  Then  "The  Seven 
Deadly  Sins  "  began  to  leap  at  once : 

' '  And  first  of  all  the  dance  was  Pride, 
With  hair  wyld  back  and  bonnet  on  side." 

He,  with  all  his  train,  came  skipping  through  the 
fire. 

"Then  Ire  came  in  with  sturt  and  strife; 
His  hand  was  aye  upon  his  knife ;  " 

and  with  him  came  armed  boasters  and  braggarts, 
smiting  each  other  with  swords,  jagging  each  other 
with  knives.  Then  Envy,  trembling  with  secret 
hatred,  accompanied  by  his  court  of  flatterers, 
backbiters,  and  calumniators,  and  all  the  human, 


84  DUNBAR 

serpentry  that  lurk  in  the  palaces  of  kings.  Then 
came  Covetousness,  with  his  hoarders  and  misers, 
and  these  the  fiends  gave  to  drink  of  newly  molten 
gold. 

"  Syne  Sweamess,  at  the  second  bidding, 
Came  like  a  sow  out  of  a  midding : " 

and  with  him  danced  a  sleepy  crew,  and  Belial 
lashed  them  with  a  bridle-rein,  and  the  fiends  gave 
them  a  turn  in  the  fire  to  make  them  nimbler. 
Then  came  Lechery,  led  by  Idleness,  with  a  host  of 
evil  companions,  "  full  strange  of  countenance,  like 
torches  burning  bright."  Then  came  Gluttony,  so 
unwieldy  that  he  could  hardly  move : 

"Him  followed  mony  foul  drunkart 
With  can  and  callop,  cup  and  quart, 
In  surfeit  and  excess." 

"  Drink,  aye,"  they  cried,  with  their  parched  lips ; 
and  the  fiends  gave  them  hot  lead  to  lap. 
Minstrels,  it  appears,  are  not  to  be  found  in  that 
dismal  place : 

"  Nae  minstrels  played  to  them  but  doubt. 
For  gleemen  there  were  halden  out 

By  day  and  eik  by  nicht : 
Except  a  minstrel  that  slew  a  man, 
So  to  his  heritage  he  wan, 

And  entered  by  brieve  of  richt." 

And  to  the  music  of  the  solitary  poet  in  hell,  the 
strange  shapes  pass.  The  conclusion  of  this  singu- 
lar poem  is  entirely  farcical.  The  Devil  is  resolved 
to  make  high  holiday : 

"Then  cried  Mahoun  for  a  Hielan  Padyane, 
Syne  ran  a  fiend  to  fetch  Makfadyane, 
Far  north-wast  in  a  neuck ; 


DUNBAR  85 

Be  he  the  coronach  had  done  shout, 
Ersche  men  so  gatherit  him  about, 

In  hell  great  room  they  took. 
Thae  tarmigants,  with  tag  and  tatter, 
Full  loud  in  Ersche  begoud  to  clatter, 

And  roup  like  raven  and  rook. 
The  Devil  sae  deaved  was  with  their  yell. 
That  in  the  deepest  pot  of  hell 

He  smorit  them  with  smook." 

There  is  one  other  poem  of  Dunbar's  which 
may  be  quoted  as  a  contrast  to  what  has  been 
already  given.  It  is  remarkable  as  being  the 
only  one  in  which  he  assumes  the  character 
of  a  lover.  The  style  of  thought  is  quite 
modern ;  bereave  it  of  its  uncouth  orthography, 
and  it  might  have  been  written  to-day.  It 
is  turned  with  much  skill  and  grace.  The 
constitutional  melancholy  of  the  man  comes 
out  in  it ;  as,  indeed,  it  always  does  when  he 
finds  a  serious  topic.  It  possesses  more  tender- 
ness and  sentiment  than  is  his  usual.  It  is  the 
night-flower  among  his  poems,  breathing  a  mourn 
ful  fragrance  : 

"Sweit  rose  of  vertew  and  of  gentilnes, 
Delytsum  lyllie  of  everie  lustynes. 
Richest  in  bontie,  and  in  beutie  cleir, 
And  every  vertew  that  to  hevin  is  dear. 
Except  onlie  that  ye  ar  mercyles. 

"  Into  your  garthe  this  day  I  did  persew : 
Thair  saw  I  flowris  that  fresche  wer  of  dew, 
Baith  quhyte  and  reid  most  lustye  wer  to  seyne, 
And  halsum  herbis  upone  stalkis  grene : 
Yet  leif  nor  flour  fynd  could  I  nane  of  rew. 


86  DUNBAR 

"  I  doute  that  March,  with  his  cauld  blastis  keyne, 
Hes  slane  this  gentill  herbe,  that  I  of  mene ; 
Quhois  pitewous  deithe  dois  to  my  hart  sic  pane, 
That  I  wald  mak  to  plant  his  rute  agane, 
So  comfortand  his  levis  unto  me  bene." 

The  extracts  already  given  will  enable  the  reader 
to  form  some  idea  of  the  old  poet's  general  power 
— his  music,  his  picturesque  faculty,  his  colour, 
his  satire.  Yet  it  is  difficult  from  what  he  has  left 
to  form  any  very  definite  image  of  the  man. 
Although  his  poems  are  for  the  most  part 
occasional,  founded  upon  actual  circumstances,  or 
written  to  relieve  him  from  the  over-pressure  of 
angry  or  melancholy  moods,  and  although  the 
writer  is  by  no  means  shy  or  indisposed  to  speak 
of  himself,  his  personality  is  not  made  clear  to  us. 
There  is  a  great  gap  of  time  between  him  and  the 
modern  reader ;  and  the  mixture  of  gold  and  clay 
in  the  products  of  his  genius,  the  discrepancy  of 
elements,  beauty,  and  coarseness,  Apollo's  cheek, 
and  the  satyr's  shaggy  limbs,  are  explainable  partly 
from  a  want  of  harmony  and  completeness  in  himself, 
and  partly  from  the  pressure  of  the  half-barbaric 
time.  His  rudeness  offends,  his  narrowness 
astonishes.  But  then  we  must  remember  that 
our  advantages  in  these  respects  do  not  necessarily 
arise  from  our  being  of  a  purer  and  nobler  essence. 
We  have  these  things  by  inheritance  ;  they  have 
been  transmitted  to  us  along  a  line  of  ancestors. 
Five  centuries  share  with  us  the  merit  of  the  result. 
Modern  delicacy  of  taste  and  intellectual  purity — 
although  we  hold  them  in  possession,  and  may  add 
to  their  sheen  before  we  hand  them  on  to   our 


DUNBAR  87 

children  —  are  no  more  to  be  placed  to  our 
personal  credits  than  Dryden's  satire,  Pope's 
epigram,  Marlborough's  battles,  Burke's  speeches, 
and  the  victories  of  Trafalgar  and  Waterloo. 
Intellectual  delicacy  has  grown  like  our  political 
constitution.  The  English  duke  is  not  the  creator 
of  his  own  wealth,  although  in  his  keeping  it  makes 
the  earth  around  him  a  garden,  and  the  walls  of 
his  house  bright  with  pictures.  But  our  inability 
to  conceive  satisfactorily  of  Dunbar  does  not  arise 
from  this  alone.  We  have  his  works,  but  then  they 
are  not  supplemented  by  personal  anecdote  and 
letters,  and  the  reminiscences  of  contemporaries. 
Burns,  for  instance — if  limited  to  his  works  for 
our  knowledge  of  him  —  would  be  a  puzzling 
phenomenon.  He  was  in  his  poems  quite  as 
outspoken  as  Dunbar,  but  then  they  describe  so 
wide  an  area,  they  appear  so  contradictory,  they 
seem  often  to  lead  in  opposite  directions.  It  is,  to 
a  large  extent,  through  his  letters  that  Burns  is 
known,  through  his  short,  careless,  pithy  sayings, 
which  imbedded  themselves  in  the  memories  of 
his  hearers,  from  the  recollections  of  his  contem- 
poraries and  their  expressed  judgments,  and  the 
multiform  reverberations  of  fame  lingering  around 
such  a  man  —  these  fill  up  interstices  between 
works,  bring  apparent  opposition  into  intimate 
relationship,  and  make  wholeness  out  of  con- 
fusion. 

Not  on  the  stage  alone,  in  the  world  also,  a 
man's  real  character  comes  out  best  in  his  asides. 
With  Dunbar  there  is  nothing  of  this.  He  is  a 
name,  and  little  more.     He  exists  in  a  region  to 


88  DUNBAR 

which  rumour  and  conjecture  have  never  penetrated. 
He  was  long  neglected  by  his  countrymen,  and 
was  brought  to  light  as  if  by  accident.  He  is  the 
Pompeii  of  British  poetry.  We  have  his  works, 
but  they  are  like  the  circumvallations  of  a  Roman 
camp  on  the  Scottish  hillside.  We  see  lines 
stretching  hither  and  thither,  but  we  cannot  make 
out  the  plan,  or  divine  what  purposes  were  served. 
We  only  know  that  every  crumbled  rampart  was 
once  a  defence;  that  every  half-obliterated  fosse 
once  swarmed  with  men  ;  that  it  was  once  a  station 
and  abiding-place  of  human  life,  although  for 
centuries  now  remitted  to  silence  and  blank 
summer  sunshine. 


A  LARK'S  FLIGHT. 

RIGHTLY  or  wrongly,  during  the  last  twenty 
or  thirty  years  strong  feeling  has  grown 
up  in  the  public  mind  against  the  principle, 
and  a  still  stronger  feeling  against  the  practice, 
of  capital  punishments.  Many  people  who  will 
admit  that  the  execution  of  the  murderer  may  be, 
abstractly  considered,  just  enough,  sincerely  doubt 
whether  such  execution  be  expedient,  and  are  in 
their  own  minds  perfectly  certain  that  it  cannot 
fail  to  demoralise  the  spectators.  In  consequence 
of  this,  executions  have  become  rare ;  and  it  is 
quite  clear  that  many  scoundrels,  well  worthy  of 
the  noose,  contrive  to  escape  it. 

When,  on  the  occasion  of  a  wretch  being  turned 
off,  the  spectators  are  few,  it  is  remarked  by  the 
newspapers  that  the  mob  is  beginning  to  lose  its 
proverbial  cruelty,  and  to  be  stirred  by  humane 
pulses;  when  they  are  numerous,  and  especially 
when  girls  and  women  form  a  majority,  the  cir- 
cumstance is  noticed  and  deplored.  It  is  plain 
enough  that,  if  the  newspaper  considered  such  an 
exhibition  beneficial,  it  would  not  lament  over  a 

few  thousand  eager  witnesses :  if  the  sermon  be 
89 


go  A  LARK'S  FLIGHT 

edifying,  you  cannot  have  too  large  a  congregation ; 
if  you  teach  a  moral  lesson  in  a  grand,  impressive 
way,  it  is  difficult  to  see  how  you  can  have  too 
many  pupils.  Of  course,  neither  the  justice  nor 
the  expediency  of  capital  punishments  falls  to  be 
discussed  here.  This,  however,  may  be  said,  that 
the  popular  feeling  against  them  may  not  be  so 
admirable  a  proof  of  enlightenment  as  many 
believe.  It  is  true  that  the  spectacle  is  painful, 
horrible;  but  in  pain  and  horror  there  is  often 
hidden  a  certain  salutariness,  and  the  repulsion  of 
which  we  are  conscious  is  as  likely  to  arise  from 
debilitation  of  public  nerve,  as  from  a  higher 
reach  of  public  feeling.  To  my  own  thinking, 
it  is  out  of  this  pain  and  hatefulness  that  an 
execution  becomes  invested  with  an  ideal  grandeur. 
It  is  sheer  horror  to  all  concerned — sheriffs,  hal- 
bertmen,  chaplain,  spectators.  Jack  Ketch,  and 
culprit;  but  out  of  all  this,  and  towering  behind 
the  vulgar  and  hideous  accessories  of  the  scaffold, 
gleams  the  majesty  of  implacable  law.  When 
every  other  fine  morning  a  dozen  cut-purses  were 
hanged  at  Tyburn,  and  when  such  sights  did  not 
run  very  strongly  against  the  popular  current,  the 
spectacle  was  vulgar,  and  could  be  of  use  only  to 
the  possible  cut-purses  congregated  around  the 
foot  of  the  scaffold.  Now,  when  the  law  has 
become  so  far  merciful ;  when  the  punishment  of 
death  is  reserved  for  the  murderer ;  when  he  can 
be  condemned  only  on  the  clearest  evidence; 
when,  as  the  days  draw  slowly  on  to  doom,  the 
frightful  event  impending  over  one  stricken  wretch 
throws  its  shadow  over  the  heart  of  every  man. 


A  LARK'S  FLIGHT  9» 

woman,  and  child  in  the  great  city ;  and  when 
the  official  persons  whose  duty  it  is  to  see  the 
letter  of  the  law  carried  out  perform  that  duty  at 
the  expense  of  personal  pain — a  public  execution 
is  not  vulgar,  it  becomes  positively  sublime.  It 
is  dreadful,  of  course;  but  its  dreadfulness  melts 
into  pure  awfulness.  The  attention  is  taken  off 
the  criminal,  and  is  lost  in  a  sense  of  the  grandeur 
of  justice;  and  the  spectator  who  beholds  an 
execution,  solely  as  it  appears  to  the  eye,  without 
recognition  of  the  idea  which  towers  behind  it, 
must  be  a  very  unspiritual  and  unimaginative 
spectator  indeed. 

It  is  taken  for  granted  that  the  spectators  of 
public  executions — the  artisans  and  country  people 
who  take  up  their  stations  over-night  as  close  to 
the  barriers  as  possible,  and  the  wealthier  classes 
who  occupy  hired  windows  and  employ  opera- 
glasses — are  merely  drawn  together  by  a  morbid 
relish  for  horrible  sights.  He  is  a  bold  man  who 
will  stand  forward  as  the  advocate  of  such  persons 
— so  completely  is  the  popular  mind  made  up  as 
to  their  tastes  and  motives.  It  is  not  disputed 
that  the  large  body  of  the  mob,  and  of  the 
occupants  of  windows,  have  been  drawn  together 
by  an  appetite  for  excitement ;  but  it  is  quite 
possible  that  many  come  there  from  an  impulse 
altogether  different.  Just  consider  the  nature  of 
the  expected  sight — a  man  in  tolerable  health 
probably,  in  possession  of  all  his  faculties,  per- 
fectly able  to  realise  his  position,  conscious  that 
for  him  this  world  and  the  next  are  so  near  that 
only  a  few   seconds   divide   them — such   a   man 


92  A  LARK'S  FLIGHT 

stands  in  the  seeing  of  several  thousand  eyes. 
He  is  so  peculiarly  circumstanced,  so  utterly 
lonely — hearing  the  tolling  of  his  own  death-bell, 
yet  living,  wearing  the  mourning  clothes  for  his 
own  funeral — that  he  holds  the  multitude  together 
by  a  shuddering  fascination.  The  sight  is  a 
peculiar  one,  you  must  admit,  and  every  peculi- 
arity has  its  attractions.  Your  volcano  is  more 
attractive  than  your  ordinary  mountain. 

Then  consider  the  unappeasable  curiosity  as  to 
death  which  haunts  every  human  being,  and  how 
pathetic  that  curiosity  is,  in  so  far  as  it  suggests 
our  own  ignorance  and  helplessness,  and  we  see 
at  once  that  people  may  flock  to  public  executions 
for  other  purposes  than  the  gratification  of  morbid 
tastes :  that  they  would  pluck  if  they  could  some 
little  knowledge  of  what  death  is ;  that  imagina- 
tively they  attempt  to  reach  to  it,  to  touch  and 
handle  it  through  an  experience  which  is  not  their 
own.  It  is  some  obscure  desire  of  this  kind,  a 
movement  of  curiosity  not  altogether  ignoble,  but 
in  some  degree  pathetic;  some  rude  attempt  of 
the  imagination  to  wrest  from  the  death  of  the 
criminal  information  as  to  the  great  secret  in  which 
each  is  profoundly  interested,  which  draws  around 
the  scaffold  people  from  the  country  harvest-fields, 
and  from  the  streets  and  alleys  of  the  town. 
Nothing  interests  men  so  much  as  death.  Age 
cannot  wither  it,  nor  custom  stale  it.  "  A  greater 
crowd  would  come  to  see  me  hanged,"  Cromwell 
is  reported  to  have  said  when  the  populace  came 
forth  on  a  public  occasion.  The  Lord  Protector 
was  right,  in  a  sense  of  which    perhaps,  at  the 


A  LARK'S  FLIGHT  93 

moment  he  was  not  aware.  Death  is  greater  than 
official  position.  When  a  man  has  to  die,  he  may 
safely  dispense  with  stars  and  ribands.  He  is 
invested  with  a  greater  dignity  than  is  held  in  the 
gift  of  kings.  A  greater  crowd  would  have  gathered 
to  see  Cromwell  hanged,  but  the  compliment 
would  have  been  paid  to  death  rather  than  to 
Cromwell.  Never  were  the  motions  of  Charles  i. 
so  scrutinised  as  when  he  stood  for  a  few  moments 
on  the  scaffold  that  winter  morning  at  Whitehall. 
King  Louis  was  no  great  orator  usually,  but  when 
on  the  2d  January  1793  he  attempted  to  speak  a 
few  words  in  the  Place  De  la  Revolution,  it  was 
found  necessary  to  drown  his  voice  in  a  harsh 
roll  of  soldiers'  drums.  Not  without  a  meaning 
do  people  come  forth  to  see  men  die.  We  stand 
in  the  valley,  they  on  the  hilltop,  and  on  their 
faces  strikes  the  light  of  the  other  world,  and  from 
some  sign  or  signal  of  theirs  we  attempt  to  dis- 
cover or  extract  a  hint  of  what  it  is  all  like. 

To  be  publicly  put  to  death,  for  whatever  reason, 
must  ever  be  a  serious  matter.  It  is  always  bitter, 
but  there  are  degrees  in  its  bitterness.  It  is  easy 
to  die  like  Stephen,  with  an  opened  heaven  above 
you,  crowded  with  angel  faces.  It  is  easy  to  die 
like  Balmerino,  with  a  chivalrous  sigh  for  the  White 
Rose,  and  an  audible  "God  bless  King  James." 
Such  men  die  for  a  cause  in  which  they  glory,  and 
are  supported  thereby ;  they  are  conducted  to  the 
portals  of  the  next  world  by  the  angels.  Faith,  Pity, 
Admiration.  But  it  is  not  easy  to  die  in  expiation 
of  a  crime  like  murder,  which  engirdles  you  with 
trembling  and  horror  even  in  the  loneliest  places, 


94  A  LARK'S  FLIGHT 

which  cuts  you  off  from  the  sympathies  of  your 
kind,  which  reduces  the  universe  to  two  elements 
— a  sense  of  personal  identity,  and  a  memory  of 
guilt.  In  so  dying,  there  must  be  inconceivable 
bitterness  :  a  man  can  have  no  other  support  than 
what  strength  he  may  pluck  from  despair,  or  from 
the  iron  with  which  nature  may  have  originally 
braced  heart  and  nerve.  Yet,  taken  as  a  whole, 
criminals  on  the  scaffold  comport  themselves 
creditably.  They  look  Death  in  the  face  when 
he  wears  his  cruellest  aspect,  and  if  they  flinch 
somewhat,  they  can  at  least  bear  to  look. 

I  believe  that,  for  the  criminal,  execution  within 
the  prison  walls,  with  no  witnesses  save  some 
half-dozen  official  persons,  would  be  infinitely 
more  terrible  than  execution  in  the  presence  of 
a  curious,  glaring  mob.  The  daylight  and  the 
publicity  are  alien  elements,  which  wean  the  man 
a  little  from  himself  He  steadies  his  dizzy  brain 
■on  the  crowd  beneath  and  around  him.  He  has 
his  last  part  to  play,  and  his  manhood  rallies  to 
play  it  well.  Nay,  so  subtly  is  vanity  intertwined 
with  our  motives,  the  noblest  and  the  most  ignoble, 
that  I  can  fancy  a  poor  wretch  with  the  noose 
-dangling  at  his  ear,  and  with  barely  five  minutes 
to  live,  soothed  somewhat  with  the  idea  that  his 
firmness  and  composure  will  earn  him  the  appro- 
bation, perhaps  the  pity,  of  the  spectators.  He 
would  take  with  him,  if  he  could,  the  good  opinion 
of  his  fellows.  This  composure  of  criminals  puzzles 
one.  Have  they  looked  at  death  so  long  and 
■closely,  that  familiarity  has  robbed  it  of  terror? 
Has  life  treated  them  so  harshly,  that  they  are 


A  LARK'S  FLIGHT  95 

tolerably  well  pleased  to  be  quit  of  it  on  any 
terms  ?  Or  is  the  whole  thing  mere  blind  stupor 
and  delirium,  in  which  thought  is  paralysed,  and 
the  man  an  automaton?  Speculation  is  useless. 
The  fact  remains  that  criminals  for  the  most  part 
die  well  and  bravely.  It  is  said  that  the  champion- 
ship of  England  was  to  be  decided  at  some  little 
distance  from  London  on  the  morning  of  the  day 
on  which  Thurtell  was  executed,  and  that,  when 
he  came  out  on  the  scaffold,  he  inquired  privily 
of  the  executioner  if  the  result  had  yet  become 
known.  Jack  Ketch  was  not  aware,  and  Thurtell 
expressed  his  regret  that  the  ceremony  in  which 
he  was  chief  actor  should  take  place  so  incon- 
veniently early  in  the  day.  Think  of  a  poor 
Thurtell  forced  to  take  his  long  journey  an  hour, 
perhaps,  before  the  arrival  of  intelligence  so 
important ! 

More  than  twenty  years  ago  I  saw  two  men 
executed,  and  the  impression  then  made  remains 
fresh  to  this  day.  For  this  there  were  many 
reasons.  The  deed  for  which  the  men  suffered 
created  an  immense  sensation.  They  were  hanged 
on  the  spot  where  the  murder  was  committed — 
on  a  rising  ground,  some  four  miles  north-east  of 
the  city ;  and  as  an  attempt  at  rescue  was  appre- 
hended, there  was  a  considerable  display  of 
military  force  on  the  occasion.  And  when,  in 
the  dead  silence  of  thousands,  the  criminals 
stood  beneath  the  halters,  an  incident  occurred, 
quite  natural  and  slight  in  itself,  but  when  taken 
in  connection  with  the  business  then  proceeding, 
so    unutterably    tragic,    so    overwhelming    in    its 


96  A  LARK'S  FLIGHT 

pathetic  suggestion  of  contrast,  that  the  feeling 
of  it  has  never  departed,  and  never  will.  At 
the  time,  too,  I  speak  of,  I  was  very  young ;  the 
world  was  like  a  die  newly  cut,  whose  every  im- 
pression is  fresh  and  vivid. 

While  the  railway  which  connects  two  northern 
capitals  was  being  built,  two  brothers  from  Ireland, 
named  Doolan,  were  engaged  upon  it  in  the  capa- 
city of  navvies.  For  some  fault  or  negligence, 
one  of  the  brothers  was  dismissed  by  the  overseer 
— a  Mr.  Green — of  that  particular  portion  of  the 
line  on  which  they  were  employed.  The  dismissed 
brother  went  off  in  search  of  work,  and  the  brother 
who  remained — Dennis  was  the  Christian  name 
of  him — brooded  over  this  supposed  wrong,  and 
in  his  dull,  twilighted  brain  revolved  projects  of 
vengeance.  He  did  not  absolutely  mean  to  take 
Green's  life,  but  he  meant  to  thrash  him  to  within 
an  inch  of  it.  Dennis,  anxious  to  thrash  Green, 
but  not  quite  seeing  his  way  to  it,  opened  his 
mind  one  afternoon,  when  work  was  over,  to 
his  friends — fellow-Irishmen  and  navvies — Messrs. 
Redding  and  Hickie.  These  took  up  Doolan's 
wrong  as  their  own,  and  that  evening,  by  the 
dull  light  of  a  bothy  fire,  they  held  a  rude  par- 
liament, discussing  ways  and  means  of  revenge. 
It  was  arranged  that  Green  should  be  thrashed 
— the  amount  of  thrashing  left  an  open  question, 
to  be  decided,  unhappily,  when  the  blood  was  up 
and  the  cinder  of  rage  blown  into  a  flame.  Hickie's 
spirit  was  found  not  to  be  a  mounting  one,  and  it 
was  arranged  that  the  active  partners  in  the  game 
should  be  Doolan  and  Redding.     Doolan,  as  the 


A  LARK'S  FLIGHT  97 

aggrieved  party,  was  to  strike  the  first  blow,  and 
Redding,  as  the  aggrieved  party's  particular  friend, 
asked  and  obtained  permission  to  strike  the  second. 
The  main  conspirators,  with  a  fine  regard  for  the 
feelings  of  the  weaker  Hickie,  allowed  him  to 
provide  the  weapons  of  assault — so  that  by  some 
slight  filament  of  aid  he  might  connect  himself 
with  the  good  cause.  The  unambitious  Hickie 
at  once  applied  himself  to  his  duty.  He  went 
out,  and  in  due  time  returned  with  two  sufficient 
iron  pokers.  The  weapons  were  examined,  ap- 
proved of,  and  carefully  laid  aside.  Doolan, 
Redding,  and  Hickie  ate  their  suppers,  and 
retired  to  their  several  couches  to  sleep,  peace- 
fully enough  no  doubt.  About  the  same  time, 
too,  Green,  the  English  overseer,  threw  down  his 
weary  limbs,  and  entered  on  his  last  sleep — little 
dreaming  what  the  morning  had  in  store  for 
him. 

Uprose  the  sun,  and  uprose  Doolan  and  Red- 
ding, and  dressed,  and  thrust  each  his  sufficient  iron 
poker  up  the  sleeve  of  his  blouse,  and  went  forth. 
They  took  up  their  station  on  a  temporary  wooden 
bridge  which  spanned  the  line,  and  waited  there. 
Across  the  bridge,  as  was  expected,  did  Green 
ultimately  come.  He  gave  them  good-morning; 
asked  "Why  they  were  loafing  about?"  received 
no  very  pertinent  answer,  perhaps  did  not  care 
to  receive  one ;  whistled — the  unsuspecting  man  ! 
— thrust  his  hands  into  his  breeches  pockets, 
turned  his  back  on  them,  and  leaned  over  the 
railing  of  the  bridge,  inspecting  the  progress  of 
the  works  beneath.  The  temptation  was  really 
7 


98  A  LARK'S  FLIGHT 

too  great.  What  could  wild  Irish  flesh  and  blood 
do  ?  In  a  moment  out  from  the  sleeve  of  Doolan's 
blouse  came  the  hidden  poker,  and  the  first  blow 
was  struck,  bringing  Green  to  the  ground.  The 
friendly  Redding  who  had  bargained  for  the  second, 
and  who,  naturally  enough,  was  in  fear  of  being  cut 
out  altogether,  jumped  on  the  prostrate  man,  and 
fulfilled  his  share  of  the  bargain  with  a  will.  It 
was  Redding,  it  was  supposed,  who  sped  the  un- 
happy Green.  They  overdid  their  work  —  like 
young  authors  —  giving  many  more  blows  than 
were  sufficient,  and  then  fled.  The  works,  of 
course,  were  that  morning  in  consternation. 
Redding  and  Hickie  were,  if  I  remember 
rightly,  apprehended  in  the  course  of  the  day. 
Doolan  got  off,  leaving  no  trace  of  his  where- 
abouts. 

These  particulars  were  all  learned  subsequently. 
The  first  intimation  which  we  schoolboys  received 
of  anything  unusual  having  occurred,  was  the 
sight  of  a  detachment  of  soldiers  with  fixed 
bayonets,  trousers  rolled  up  over  muddy  boots, 
marching  past  the  front  of  the  Cathedral  hurriedly 
home  to  barracks.  This  was  a  circumstance  some- 
what unusual.  We  had,  of  course,  frequently 
seen  a  couple  of  soldiers  trudging  along  with 
sloped  muskets,  and  that  cruel  glitter  of  steel 
which  no  one  of  us  could  look  upon  quite  un- 
moved; but  in  such  cases,  the  deserter  walking 
between  them  in  his  shirt-sleeves,  his  pinioned 
hands  covered  from  public  gaze  by  the  loose  folds 
of  his  greatcoat,  explained  everything.  But  from 
the  hurried   march   of  these   mud-splashed  men. 


A  LARK'S  FLIGHT  99 

nothing  could  be  gathered,  and  we  were  left  to 
speculate  upon  its  meaning.  Gradually,  however, 
before  the  evening  fell,  the  rumour  of  a  murder 
having  been  committed  spread  through  the  city, 
and  with  that  I  instinctively  connected  the  appari- 
tion of  the  file  of  muddy  soldiers.  Next  day, 
murder  was  in  every  mouth.  My  schoolfellows 
talked  of  it  to  the  detriment  of  their  lessons;  it 
flavoured  the  tobacco  of  the  fustian  artisan  as  he 
smoked  to  work  after  breakfast;  it  walked  on 
'Change  amongst  the  merchants.  It  was  known 
that  two  of  the  persons  implicated  had  been 
captured,  but  that  the  other,  and  guiltiest,  was 
still  at  large ;  and  in  a  few  days  out  on  every  piece 
of  boarding  and  blank  wall  came  the  "Hue  and 
cry" — describing  Doolan  like  a  photograph,  to 
the  colour  and  cut  of  his  whiskers,  and  offering 
p^ioo  as  reward  for  his  apprehension,  or  for  such 
information  as  would  lead  to  his  apprehension — 
like  a  silent,  implacable  bloodhound  following 
close  on  the  track  of  the  murderer.  This  terrible 
broad-sheet  I  read,  was  certain  that  he  had  read 
it  also,  and  fancy  ran  riot  over  the  ghastly  fact. 
For  him  no  hope,  no  rest,  no  peace,  no  touch  of 
hands  gentler  than  the  hangman's ;  all  the  world 
is  after  him  like  a  roaring  prairie  of  flame !  I 
thought  of  Doolan,  weary,  footsore,  heartsore, 
entering  some  quiet  village  of  an  evening ;  and  to 
quench  his  thirst,  going  up  to  the  public  well, 
around  which  the  gossips  are  talking,  and  hearing 
that  they  were  talking  of  him  ;  and  seeing  from  the 
well  itself,  it  glaring  upon  him,  as  if  conscious  of 
his  presence,  with  a  hundred  eyes  of  vengeance. 


loo  A  LARK'S  FLIGHT 

I  thought  of  him  asleep  in  outhouses,  and  starting 
up  in  wild  dreams  of  the  policeman's  hand  upon 
his  shoulder  fifty  times  ere  morning.  He  had 
committed  the  crime  of  Cain,  and  the  weird  of 
Cain  he  had  to  endure.  But  yesterday  innocent, 
how  unimportant;  to-day  bloody -handed,  the 
whole  world  is  talking  of  him,  and  everything  he 
touches,  the  very  bed  he  sleeps  on,  steals  from  him 
his  secret,  and  is  eager  to  betray  ! 

Doolan  was  finally  captured  in  Liverpool,  and 
in  the  Spring  Assize  the  three  men  were  brought 
to  trial.  The  jury  found  them  guilty,  but  recom- 
mended Hickie  to  mercy  on  account  of  some 
supposed  weakness  of  mind  on  his  part.  Sentence 
was,  of  course,  pronounced  with  the  usual 
solemnities.  They  were  set  apart  to  die;  and 
when  snug  abed  o'  nights — for  imagination  is  most 
mightily  moved  by  contrast — I  crept  into  their 
desolate  hearts,  and  tasted  a  misery  which  was 
not  my  own.  As  already  said,  Hickie  was  re- 
commended to  mercy,  and  the  recommendation 
was  ultimately  in  the  proper  quarter  given 
effect  to. 

The  evening  before  the  execution  has  arrived, 
and  the  reader  has  now  to  imagine  the  early  May 
sunset  falling  pleasantly  on  the  outskirts  of  the 
city.  The  houses  looking  out  upon  an  open 
square  or  space,  have  little  plots  of  garden  ground 
in  their  fronts,  in  which  mahogany-coloured  wall- 
flowers and  mealy  auriculas  are  growing.  The 
side  of  this  square,  along  which  the  City  Road 
stretches  northward,  is  occupied  by  a  blind  asylum, 
a  brick  building,  the  bricks  painted  red  and  picked 


A  LARK'S  FLIGHT  loi 

out  with  white,  after  the  tidy  English  fashion,  and 
a  high  white  cemetery  wall,  over  which  peers  the 
spire  of  the  Gothic  Cathedral ;  and  beyond  that, 
on  the  other  side  of  the  ravine,  rising  out  of  a 
populous  city  of  the  dead,  a  stone  John  Knox 
looks  down  on  the  Cathedral,  a  Bible  clutched  in 
his  outstretched  and  menacing  hand.  On  all  this 
the  May  sunset  is  striking,  dressing  everything  in 
its  warm,  pleasant  pink,  lingering  in  the  tufts  of 
foliage  that  nestle  around  the  asylum,  and  dipping 
the  building  itself  one  half  in  light,  one  half  in 
tender  shade.  This  open  space  or  square  is  an 
excellent  place  for  the  games  of  us  boys,  and 
"Prisoner's  Base"  is  being  carried  out  with  as 
much  earnestness  as  the  business  of  life  now  by 
those  of  us  who  are  left.  The  girls,  too,  have 
their  games  of  a  quiet  kind,  which  we  hold  in 
huge  scorn  and  contempt.  In  two  files,  linked 
arm-in-arm,  they  alternately  dance  towards  each 
other  and  then  retire,  singing  the  while,  in  their 
clear,  girlish  treble,  verses,  the  meaning  and 
pertinence  of  which  time  has  worn  away — 

"  The  Campsie  Duke's  a-riding,  a-riding,  a-riding," 

being  the  oft-recurring  "owercome"  or  refrain. 
All  this  is  going  on  in  the  pleasant  sunset  light, 
when  by  the  apparition  of  certain  waggons  coming 
up  from  the  city,  piled  high  with  blocks  and  beams, 
and  guarded  by  a  dozen  dragoons,  on  whose 
brazen  helmets  the  sunset  danced,  every  game  is 
dismembered,  and  we  are  in  a  moment  a  mere 
mixed  mob  of  boys  and  girls,  flocking  around  to 
stare  and  wonder.     Just  at  this  place  something 


I02  A  LARK'S  FLIGHT 

went  wrong  with  one  of  the  waggon  wheels,  and 
the  procession  came  to  a  stop.  A  crowd  collected, 
and  we  heard  some  of  the  grown-up  people  say, 
that  the  scaffold  was  being  carried  out  for  the 
ceremony  of  to-morrow.  Then,  more  intensely 
than  ever,  one  realised  the  condition  of  the 
doomed  men.  We  were  at  our  happy  games  in 
the  sunset,  they  were  entering  on  their  last  night 
on  earth.  After  hammering  and  delay  the  wheel 
was  put  to  rights,  the  sunset  died  out,  waggons 
and  dragoons  got  into  motion  and  disappeared; 
and  all  the  night  through,  whether  awake  or 
asleep,  I  saw  the  torches  burning,  and  heard  the 
hammers  clinking,  and  witnessed  as  clearly  as  if 
I  had  been  an  onlooker,  the  horrid  structure 
rising,  till  it  stood  complete,  with  a  huge  cross- 
beam from  which  two  empty  halters  hung,  in 
the  early  morning  light. 

Next  morning  the  whole  city  was  in  commotion. 
Whether  the  authorities  were  apprehensive  that  a 
rescue  would  be  attempted,  or  were  anxious  merely 
to  strike  terror  into  the  hundreds  of  wild  Irishry 
engaged  on  the  railway,  I  cannot  say ;  in  any  case, 
there  was  a  display  of  military  force  quite  unusual. 
The  carriage  in  which  the  criminals — Catholics 
both — and  their  attendant  priests  were  seated,  was 
guarded  by  soldiers  with  fixed  bayonets;  indeed, 
the  whole  regiment  then  lying  in  the  city  was 
massed  in  front  and  behind,  with  a  cold,  frightful 
glitter  of  steel.  Besides  the  foot  soldiers,  there 
were  dragoons,  and  two  pieces  of  cannon ;  a  whole 
little  army,  in  fact.  With  a  slenderer  force  battles 
have  been  won  which  have  made  a  mark  in  history. 


A  LARK'S  FLIGHT  103 

What  did  the  prisoners  think  of  their  strange 
importance,  and  of  the  tramp  and  hurly-burly  all 
around  ?  When  the  procession  moved  out  of  the 
city,  it  seemed  to  draw  with  it  almost  the  entire 
population ;  and  when  once  the  country  roads  were 
reached,  the  crowd  spread  over  the  fields  on  either 
side,  ruthlessly  treading  down  the  tender  wheat 
braird.  I  got  a  glimpse  of  the  doomed,  blanched 
faces  which  had  haunted  me  so  long,  at  the  turn 
of  the  road,  where,  for  the  first  time,  the  black 
cross-beam  with  its  empty  halters  first  became 
visible  to  them.  Both  turned  and  regarded  it  with 
a  long,  steady  look;  that  done,  they  again  bent 
their  heads  attentively  to  the  words  of  the  clergy- 
man. I  suppose  in  that  long,  eager,  fascinated 
gaze  they  practically  died — that  for  them  death  had 
no  additional  bitterness.  When  the  mound  was 
reached  on  which  the  scaffold  stood,  there  was 
immense  confusion.  Around  it  a  wide  space  was 
kept  clear  by  the  military ;  the  cannon  were  placed 
in  position;  out  flashed  the  swords  of  the  dragoons; 
beneath  and  around  on  every  side  was  the  crowd. 
Between  two  brass  helmets  I  could  see  the  scaffold 
clearly  enough,  and  when  in  a  little  while  the  men, 
bareheaded  and  with  their  attendants,  appeared 
upon  it,  the  surging  crowd  became  stiffened  with 
fear  and  awe.  And  now  it  was  that  the  incident 
so  simple,  so  natural,  so  much  in  the  ordinary 
course  of  things,  and  yet  so  frightful  in  its  tragic 
suggestions,  took  place.  Be  it  remembered  that 
the  season  was  early  May,  that  the  day  was  fine, 
that  the  wheat-fields  were  clothing  themselves  in 
the  green  of  the  young  crop,  and  that  around  the 


I04  A  LARK'S  FLIGHT 

scaffold,  standing  on  a  sunny  mound,  a  wide  space 
was  kept  clear.  When  the  men  appeared  beneath 
the  beam,  each  under  his  proper  halter,  there  was 
a  dead  silence — every  one  was  gazing  too  intently 
to  whisper  to  his  neighbour  even.  Just  then,  out 
of  the  grassy  space  at  the  foot  of  the  scaffold,  in 
the  dead  silence  audible  to  all,  a  lark  rose  from 
the  side  of  its  nest,  and  went  singing  upward  in  its 
happy  flight.  O  heaven  !  how  did  that  song  trans- 
late itself  into  dying  ears?  Did  it  bring  in  one 
wild  burning  moment  father,  and  mother,  and  poor 
Irish  cabin,  and  prayers  said  at  bedtime,  and  the 
smell  of  turf  fires,  and  innocent  sweethearting,  and 
rising  and  setting  suns  ?  Did  it — but  the  dragoon's 
horse  has  become  restive,  and  his  brass  helmet 
bobs  up  and  down  and  blots  everything;  and 
there  is  a  sharp  sound,  and  I  feel  the  great  crowd 
heave  and  swing,  and  hear  it  torn  by  a  sharp  shiver 
of  pity,  and  the  men  whom  I  saw  so  near  but  a 
moment  ago  are  at  immeasurable  distance,  and  have 
solved  the  great  enigma — and  the  lark  has  not  yet 
finished  his  flight :  you  can  see  and  hear  him 
yonder  in  the  fringe  of  a  white  May  cloud. 

This  ghastly  lark's  flight,  when  the  circumstances 
are  taken  into  consideration,  is,  I  am  inclined  to 
think,  more  terrible  than  anything  of  the  same 
kind  which  I  have  encountered  in  books.  The 
artistic  uses  of  contrast  as  background  and  accom- 
paniment, are  well  known  to  nature  and  the  poets. 
Joy  is  continually  worked  on  sorrow,  sorrow  on 
joy;  riot  is  framed  in  peace,  peace  in  riot.  Lear 
and  the  Fool  always  go  together.  Trafalgar  is 
being  fought  while  Napoleon  is  sitting  on  horse- 


A  LARK'S  FLIGHT  105 

back  watching  the  Austrian  army  laying  down  its 
arms  at  Ulm.  In  Hood's  poem,  it  is  when  looking 
on  the  released  schoolboys  at  their  games  that 
Eugene  Aram  remembers  he  is  a  murderer.  And 
these  two  poor  Irish  labourers  could  not  die  with- 
out hearing  a  lark  singing  in  their  ears.  It  is 
Nature's  fashion.  She  never  quite  goes  along  with 
us.  She  is  sombre  at  weddings,  sunny  at  funerals, 
and  she  frowns  on  ninety-nine  out  of  a  hundred 
picnics. 

There  is  a  stronger  element  of  terror  in  this  inci- 
dent of  the  lark  than  in  any  story  of  a  similar  kind 
I  can  remember. 

A  good  story  is  told  of  an  Irish  gentleman — still 
known  in  London  society  —  who  inherited  the 
family  estates  and  the  family  banshee.  The 
estates  he  lost — no  uncommon  circumstance  in 
the  history  of  Irish  gentlemen — but  the  banshee, 
who  expected  no  favours,  stuck  to  him  in  his 
adversity,  and  crossed  the  channel  with  him,  mak- 
ing herself  known  only  on  occasions  of  deathbeds 
and  sharp  family  misfortunes.  This  gentleman  had 
an  ear,  and,  seated  one  night  at  the  opera,  the 
keen — heard  once  or  twice  before  on  memorable 
occasions — thrilled  through  the  din  of  the  orchestra 
and  the  passion  of  the  singers.  He  hurried  home, 
of  course,  found  his  immediate  family  well,  but  on 
the  morrow  a  telegram  arrived  with  the  announce- 
ment of  a  brother's  death.  Surely  of  all  super- 
stitions that  is  the  most  imposing  which  makes  the 
other  world  interested  in  the  events  which  befall 
our  mortal  lot.  For  the  mere  pomp  and  pride  of 
it,  your  ghost  is  worth  a  dozen  retainers,  and  it  is 


io6  A  LARK'S  FLIGHT 

entirely  inexpensive.  The  peculiarity  and  super- 
natural worth  of  this  story  lies  in  the  idea  of  the 
old  wail  piercing  through  the  sweet  entanglement 
of  stringed  instruments  and  extinguishing  Grisi. 
Modern  circumstances  and  luxury  crack,  as  it 
were,  and  reveal  for  a  moment  misty  and  ab- 
original time  big  with  portent. 

There  is  a  ridiculous  Scotch  story  in  which 
one  gruesome  touch  lives.  A  clergyman's  female 
servant  was  seated  in  the  kitchen  one  Saturday 
night  reading  the  Scriptures,  when  she  was  some- 
what startled  by  hearing  at  the  door  the  tap  and 
voice  of  her  sweetheart.  Not  expecting  him,  and 
the  hour  being  somewhat  late,  she  opened  it  in 
astonishment,  and  was  still  more  astonished  to 
hear  him  on  entering  abuse  Scripture-reading.  He 
behaved  altogether  in  an  unprecedented  manner, 
and  in  many  ways  terrified  the  poor  girl.  Ulti- 
mately he  knelt  before  her,  and  laid  his  head 
on  her  lap.  You  can  fancy  her  consternation 
when  glancing  down  she  discovered  that,  instead 
of  hair,  the  head  was  covered  with  the  moss  of 
the  moorland.  By  a  sacred  name  she  adjured 
him  to  tell  who  he  was,  and  in  a  moment  the 
figure  was  gone.  It  was  the  Fiend,  of  course — 
diminished  sadly  since  Milton  saw  him  bridge 
chaos  —  fallen  from  worlds  to  kitchen-wenches. 
But  just  think  how,  in  the  story,  in  half-pity,  in 
half-terror,  the  popular  feeling  of  homelessness, 
of  being  outcast,  of  being  unsheltered  as  waste 
and  desert  places,  has  incarnated  itself  in  that 
strange  covering  of  the  head.  It  is  a  true  super- 
natural touch.      One   other  story   I   have   heard 


A  LARK'S  FLIGHT  107 

in  the  misty  Hebrides :  A  Skye  gentleman  was 
riding  along  an  empty  moorland  road.  All  at 
once,  as  if  it  had  sprung  from  the  ground,  the 
empty  road  was  crowded  by  a  funeral  procession. 
Instinctively  he  drew  his  horse  to  a  side  to  let 
it  pass,  which  it  did  without  sound  of  voice, 
without  tread  of  foot  Then  he  knew  it  was 
an  apparition.  Staring  on  it,  he  knew  every 
person  who  either  bore  the  corpse  or  who  walked 
behind  as  mourners.  There  were  the  neighbour- 
ing proprietors  at  whose  houses  he  dined,  there 
were  the  members  of  his  own  kirk-session,  there 
were  the  men  to  whom  he  was  wont  to  give 
good-morning  when  he  met  them  on  the  road 
or  at  market.  Unable  to  discover  his  own 
image  in  the  throng,  he  was  inwardly  marvelling 
whose  funeral  it  could  be,  when  the  troop  of 
spectres  vanished,  and  the  road  was  empty  as 
before.  Then,  remembering  that  the  coffin  had 
an  invisible  occupant,  he  cried  out,  "It  is  my 
funeral ! "  and,  with  all  his  strength  taken  out 
of  him,  rode  home  to  die. 

All  these  stories  have  their  own  touches  of 
terror;  yet  I  am  inclined  to  think  that  my  lark 
rising  from  the  scaffold  foot,  and  singing  to  two 
such  auditors,  is  more  terrible  than  any  one  of 
them. 


CHRISTMAS. 

OVER  the  dial-face  of  the  year,  on  which  the 
hours  are  months,  the  apex  resting  in  sun- 
shine, the  base  in  withered  leaves  and  snows,  the 
finger  of  time  does  not  travel  with  the  same  rapidity. 
Slowly  it  creeps  up  from  snow  to  sunshine  ;  when 
it  has  gained  the  summit  it  seems  almost  to  rest 
for  a  little ;  rapidly  it  rushes  down  from  sunshine 
to  the  snow.  Judging  from  my  own  feelings,  the 
distance  from  January  to  June  is  greater  than  from 
June  to  January — the  period  from  Christmas  to 
Midsummer  seems  longer  than  the  period  from 
Midsummer  to  Christmas.  This  feeling  arises,  I 
should  fancy,  from  the  preponderance  of  light  on 
that  half  of  the  dial  on  which  the  finger  seems  to 
be  travelling  upwards,  compared  with  the  half  on 
which  it  seems  to  be  travelling  downwards.  This 
light  to  the  eye,  the  mind  translates  into  time. 
Summer  days  are  long,  often  wearisomely  so. 
The  long-lighted  days  are  bracketed  together  by  a 
little  bar  of  twilight,  in  which  but  a  star  or  two  find 
time  to  twinkle.  Usually  one  has  less  occupation 
in  summer  than  in  winter,  and  the  surplusage  of 
summer  light,  a  stage  too  large  for  the  play,  wearies, 


CHRISTMAS  109 

oppresses,  sometimes  appals.  From  the  sense  of 
time  we  can  only  shelter  ourselves  by  occupation  ; 
and  when  occupation  ceases  while  yet  some  three 
or  four  hours  of  light  remain,  the  burden  falls  down, 
and  is  often  greater  than  we  can  bear. 

I  have  a  certain  morbid  fear  of  those  endless 
summer  twilights.  A  space  of  light  stretching 
from  half-past  2  a.m.  to  11  p.m.  affects  me  with  a 
sense  of  infinity,  of  horrid  sameness,  just  as  the  sea 
or  the  desert  would  do.  I  feel  that  for  too  long  a 
period  I  am  under  the  eye  of  a  taskmaster.  Twi- 
light is  always  in  itself,  or  at  least  in  its  suggestions, 
melancholy;  and  these  midsummer  twilights  are 
so  long,  they  pass  through  such  series  of  lovely 
change,  they  are  throughout  so  mournfully  beauti- 
ful, that  in  the  brain  they  beget  strange  thoughts, 
and  in  the  heart  strange  feelings.  We  see  too 
much  of  the  sky,  and  the  long,  lovely,  pathetic, 
lingering  evening  light,  with  its  suggestions  of 
eternity  and  death,  which  one  cannot  for  the  soul 
of  one  put  into  words,  is  somewhat  too  much  for 
the  comfort  of  a  sensitive  human  mortal.  The  day 
dies,  and  makes  no  apology  for  being  such  an 
unconscionable  time  in  dying ;  and  all  the  while 
it  colours  our  thoughts  with  its  own  solemnity. 

There  is  no  relief  from  this  kind  of  thing  at 
mid-summer.  You  cannot  close  your  shutters  and 
light  your  candles  ;  that,  in  the  tone  of  mind  which 
circumstances  superinduce,  would  be  brutality. 
You  cannot  take  Pickwick  to  the  window  and  read 
it  by  the  dying  light ;  that  is  profanation.  If  you 
have  a  friend  with  you,  you  can't  talk ;  the  hour 
makes  you  silent.     You  are  driven  in  on  your  self- 


no  CHRISTMAS 

consciousness.  The  long  light  wearies  the  eye,  a 
sense  of  time  disturbs  and  saddens  the  spirit ;  and 
that  is  the  reason,  I  think,  that  one  half  of  the 
year  seems  so  much  longer  than  the  other  half; 
that  on  the  dial-plate  whose  hours  are  months,  the 
restless  finger  seems  to  move  more  slowly  when  travel- 
ling upward  from  autumn  leaves  and  snow  to  light, 
than  when  it  is  travelling  downward  from  light  to 
snow  and  withered  leaves. 

Of  all  the  seasons  of  the  year,  I  like  winter  best 
That  peculiar  burden  of  time  I  have  been  speaking 
of,  does  not  affect  me  now.  ■  The  day  is  short,  and 
I  can  fill  it  with  work  ;  when  evening  comes,  I 
have  my  lighted  room  and  my  books.  Should 
black  care  haunt  me,  I  throw  it  off  the  scent  in 
Spenser's  forests,  or  seek  refuge  from  it  among 
Shakspeare's  men  and  women,  who  are  by  far  the 
best  company  I  have  met  with,  or  am  like  to  meet 
with,  on  earth.  I  am  sitting  at  this  present 
moment  with  my  curtains  drawn ;  the  cheerful 
fire  is  winking  at  all  the  furniture  in  the  room,  and 
from  every  leg  and  arm  the  furniture  is  winking  to 
the  fire  in  return.  I  put  off  the  outer  world  with 
my  greatcoat  and  boots,  and  put  on  contentment 
and  idleness  with  my  slippers.  On  the  hearth-rug, 
Pepper,  coiled  in  a  shaggy  ball,  is  asleep  in  the 
ruddy  light  and  heat.  An  imaginative  sense  of  the 
cold  outside  increases  my  present  comfort — just  as 
one  never  hugs  one's  own  good  luck  so  affection- 
ately as  when  listening  to  the  relation  of  some 
horrible  misfortune  which  has  overtaken  others. 
Winter  has  fallen  on  Dreamthorp,  and  it  looks  as 
pretty  when  covered  with  snow,  as  when  covered 


CHRISTMAS  III 

with  apple  blossom.  Outside,  the  ground  is  hard 
as  iron ;  and  over  the  low  dark  hill,  lo !  the 
tender  radiance  that  precedes  the  moon.  Every 
window  in  the  little  village  has  its  light,  and  to  the 
traveller  coming  on,  enveloped  in  his  breath,  the 
whole  place  shines  like  a  congregation  of  glow- 
worms. A  pleasant  enough  sight  to  him  if  his 
home  be  there  !  At  this  present  season,  the  canal 
is  not  such  a  pleasant  promenade  as  it  was  in 
summer.  The  barges  come  and  go  as  usual,  but 
at  this  time  I  do  not  envy  the  bargemen  quite  so 
much.  The  horse  comes  smoking  along;  the 
tarpaulin  which  covers  the  merchandise  is  sprinkled 
with  hoar  frost ;  and  the  helmsman,  smoking  his 
short  pipe  for  the  mere  heat  of  it,  cowers  over  a 
few  red  cinders  contained  in  a  framework  of  iron. 
The  labour  of  the  poor  fellows  will  soon  be  over 
for  a  time ;  for  if  this  frost  continues,  the  canal 
will  be  sheathed  in  a  night,  and  next  day  stones 
will  be  thrown  upon  it,  and  a  daring  urchin 
venturing  upon  it  will  go  souse  head  over  heels, 
and  run  home  with  his  teeth  in  a  chatter  ;  and  the 
day  after,  the  lake  beneath  the  old  castle  will  be 
sheeted,  and  the  next,  the  villagers  will  be  sliding 
on  its  gleaming  face  from  ruddy  dawn  at  nine  to 
ruddy  eve  at  three;  and  hours  later,  skaters  yet 
unsatisfied  will  be  moving  ghost-like  in  the  gloom 
— now  one,  now  another,  shooting  on  sounding 
irons  into  a  clear  space  of  frosty  light,  chasing  the 
moon,  or  the  flying  image  of  a  star  !  Happy  youths 
leaning  against  the  frosty  wind  ! 

I  am  a  Christian,  I  hope,  although  far  from   a 
muscular  one  —  consequently   I   cannot  join  the 


112  CHRISTMAS 

skaters  on  the  lake.     The  floor  of  ice,  with  the 
people  upon  it,  will  be  but  a  picture  to  me.     And, 
in  truth,  it  is  in  its  pictorial  aspect  that  I  chiefly 
love  the  bleak  season.     As  an  artist,  winter  can 
match   summer   any  day.      The  heavy,   feathery 
flakes  have  been  falling  all  the  night  through,  we 
shall  suppose,  and  when  you  get  up  in  the  morning 
the  world  is  draped  in  white.     AVhat  a  sight  it  is ! 
It  is  the  world  you  knew,  but  yet  a  different  one. 
The  familiar  look  has  gone,  and  another  has  taken 
its  place ;  and  a  not  unpleasant  puzzlement  arises 
in  your  mind,   born   of  the   patent   and   the   re- 
membered aspect.     It  reminds  you  of  a  friend  who 
has  been  suddenly  placed  in  new  circumstances, 
in  whom  there  is  much  that  you  recognise,  and 
much    that    is    entirely    strange.       How    purely, 
divinely  white  when  the  last  snow-flake  has  just 
fallen !     How  exquisite  and  virginal  the  repose ! 
It  touches   you   like   some   perfection   of   music 
And  winter  does  not  work  only  on  a  broad  scale ; 
he  is  careful  in  trifles.     Pluck  a  single  ivy  leaf  from 
the  old  wall,  and  see  what  a  jeweller  he  is  !     How 
he  has  silvered  over  the  dark-green  reticulations 
with   his   frosts !     The   faggot   which   the   Tramp 
gathers  for  his  fire  is  thicklier  incrusted  with  gems 
than  ever  was  sceptre  of  the  Moguls.     Go  into  the 
woods,  and  behold  on  the  black  boughs  his  glories 
of  pearl  and  diamond — pendant  splendours  that, 
smitten  by  the  noon-ray,  melt  into  tears  and  fall 
but  to  congeal  into  splendours  again.     Nor  does 
he  work  in  black  and  white  alone.     He  has  on  his 
palette  more  gorgeous  colours  than  those  in  which 
swim  the  summer  setting  suns;  and  with  these, 


CHRISTMAS  113 

about  three  o'clock,  he  begins  to  adorn  his  west,  stick- 
ing his  red-hot  ball  of  a  sun  in  the  very  midst :  and 
a  couple  of  hours  later,  when  the  orb  has  fallen,  and 
the  flaming  crimson  has  mellowed  into  liquid  orange, 
you  can  see  the  black  skeletons  of  trees  scribbled 
upon  the  melancholy  glory.  Nor  need  I  speak  of 
the  magnificence  of  a  winter  midnight,  when  space, 
sombre  blue,  crowded  with  star  and  planet,  "  bur- 
nished by  the  frost,"  is  glittering  like  the  harness 
of  an  archangel  full  panoplied  against  a  battle  day. 
For  years  and  years  now  I  have  watched  the 
seasons  come  and  go  around  Dreamthorp,  and 
each  in  its  turn  interests  me  as  if  I  saw  it  for  the 
first  time.  But  the  other  week  it  seems  that  I  saw 
the  grain  ripen ;  then  by  day  a  motley  crew  of 
reapers  were  in  the  fields,  and  at  night  a  big  red 
moon  looked  down  upon  the  stooks  of  oats  and 
barley ;  then  in  mighty  wains  the  plenteous  harvest 
came  swaying  home,  leaving  a  largess  on  the  roads 
for  every  bird ;  then  the  round,  yellow,  comfortable- 
looking  stacks  stood  around  the  farmhouses,  hiding 
them  to  the  chimneys ;  then  the  woods  reddened, 
the  beech  hedges  became  russet,  and  every  puff  of 
wind  made  rustle  the  withered  leaves ;  then  the 
sunset  came  before  the  early  dark,  and  in  the  east 
lay  banks  of  bleak  pink  vapour,  which  are  ever 
a  prophecy  of  cold ;  then  out  of  a  low  dingy  heaven 
came  all  day,  thick  and  silent,  the  whirling  snow ; 
— and  so  by  exquisite  succession  of  sight  and  sound 
have  I  been  taken  from  the  top  of  the  year  to  the 
bottom  of  it,  from  midsummer,  with  its  unreaped 
harvests,  to  the  night  on  which  I  am  sitting  here 
— Christmas  1862. 


114  CHRISTMAS 

Sitting  here,  I  incontinently  find  myself  holding 
a  levee  of  departed  Christmas  nights.  Silently, 
and  without  special  call,  into  my  study  of  imagina- 
tion come  these  apparitions,  clad  in  snowy  mantles, 
brooched  and  gemmed  with  frosts.  Their  numbers 
I  do  not  care  to  count,  for  I  know  they  are  the 
numbers  of  my  years.  The  visages  of  two  or  three 
are  sad  enough,  but  on  the  whole  'tis  a  congregation 
of  jolly  ghosts.  The  nostrils  of  my  memory  are 
assailed  by  a  faint  odour  of  plum-pudding  and 
burnt  brandy.  I  hear  a  sound  as  of  light  music, 
a  whisk  of  women's  dresses  whirled  round  in  dance, 
a  click  as  of  glasses  pledged  by  friends.  Before  one 
of  these  apparitions  is  a  mound,  as  of  a  new-made 
grave,  on  which  the  snow  is  lying.  I  know,  I 
know !  Drape  thyself  not  in  white  like  the  others, 
but  in  mourning  stole  of  crape ;  and  instead  of 
dance  music,  let  there  haunt  around  thee  the 
service  for  the  dead !  I  know  that  sprig  of 
Mistletoe,  O  Spirit  in  the  midst !  Under  it  I 
swung  the  girl  I  loved — girl  no  more  now  than  I 
am  boy — and  kissed  her  spite  of  blush  and  pretty 
shriek.  And  thee,  too,  with  fragrant  trencher  in 
hand,  over  which  blue  tongues  of  flame  are 
playing,  do  I  know — most  ancient  apparition  of 
them  all.  I  remember  thy  reigning  night.  Back 
to  very  days  of  childhood  am  I  taken  by  thy 
ghostly  raisins  simmering  in  a  ghostly  brandy  flame. 
Where  now  the  merry  boys  and  girls  that  thrust 
their  fingers  in  thy  blaze  ?  And  now,  when  I 
think  of  it,  thee  also  would  I  drape  in  black 
raiment,  around  thee  also  would  I  make  the  burial 
service  murmur. 


CHRISTMAS  115 

Men  hold  the  anniversaries  of  their  birth,  of 
their  marriage,  of  the  birth  of  their  first-born,  and 
they  hold — although  they  spread  no  feast,  and  ask 
no  friends  to  assist — many  another  anniversary 
besides.  On  many  a  day  in  every  year  does  a 
man  remember  what  took  place  on  that  self-same 
day  in  some  former  year,  and  chews  the  sweet  or 
bitter  herb  of  memory,  as  the  case  may  be.  Could 
I  ever  hope  to  write  a  decent  Essay,  I  should  like 
to  write  one  "  On  the  Revisiting  of  Places."  It  is 
strange  how  important  the  poorest  human  being  is 
to  himself!  how  he  likes  to  double  back  on  his 
experiences,  to  stand  on  the  place  he  has  stood 
before,  to  meet  himself  face  to  face  as  it  were  ! 

I  go  to  the  great  city  in  which  my  early  life  was 
spent,  and  I  love  to  indulge  myself  in  this  whim. 
The  only  thing  I  care  about  is  that  portion  of  the 
city  which  is  connected  with  myself.  I  don't  think 
this  passion  of  reminiscence  is  debased  by  the 
slightest  taint  of  vanity.  The  lamp-post,  under 
the  light  of  which  in  the  winter  rain  there  was  a 
parting  so  many  years  ago,  I  contemplate  with  the 
most  curious  interest.  I  stare  on  the  windows  of 
the  houses  in  which  I  once  lived,  with  a  feeling 
which  I  should  find  difificult  to  express  in  words. 
I  think  of  the  life  I  led  there,  of  the  good  and 
the  bad  news  that  came,  of  the  sister  who  died, 
of  the  brother  who  was  born ;  and  were  it  at 
all  possible,  I  should  like  to  knock  at  the  once 
familiar  door,  and  look  at  the  old  walls — which 
could  speak  to  me  so  strangely — once  again.  To 
revisit  that  city  is  like  walking  away  back  into  my 
yesterdays.     I   startle   myself  with   myself  at  the 


ii6  CHRISTMAS 

comers  of  streets,  I  confront  forgotten  bits  of 
myself  at  the  entrance  to  houses.  In  windows 
which  to  another  man  would  seem  blank  and 
meaningless,  I  find  personal  poems  too  deep  to 
be  ever  turned  into  rhymes  —  more  pathetic, 
mayhap,  than  I  have  ever  found  on  printed  page. 
The  spot  of  ground  on  which  a  man  has  stood 
is  for  ever  interesting  to  him.  Ever)'  experience 
is  an  anchor  holding  him  the  more  firmly  to 
existence.  It  is  for  this  reason  that  we  hold  our 
sacred  days,  silent  and  solitary  anniversaries  of 
joy  and  bitterness,  renewing  ourselves  thereby, 
going  back  upon  ourselves,  living  over  again  the 
memorable  experience.  The  full  yellow  moon 
of  next  September  will  gather  into  itself  the  light 
of  the  full  yellow  moons  of  Septembers  long  ago. 
In  this  Christmas  night  all  the  other  Christmas 
nights  of  my  life  live.  How  warm,  breathing,  full 
of  myself  is  the  year  1862,  now  almost  gone! 
How  bare,  cheerless,  unknown,  the  year  1863, 
about  to  come  in !  It  stretches  before  me  in 
imagination  like  some  great,  gaunt  untenanted 
ruin  of  a  Colosseum,  in  which  no  footstep  falls, 
no  voice  is  heard;  and  by  this  night  year  its 
naked  chambers  and  windows,  three  hundred  and 
sixty-five  in  number,  will  be  clothed  all  over,  and 
hidden  by  myself  as  if  with  covering  ivies.  Look- 
ing forward  into  an  empty  year  strikes  one  with 
a  certain  awe,  because  one  finds  therein  no 
recognition.  The  years  behind  have  a  friendly 
aspect,  and  they  are  warmed  by  the  fires  we  have 
kindled,  and  all  their  echoes  are  the  echoes  of  our 
own  voices. 


CHRISTMAS  117 

This,  then,  is  Christmas  1862,  Everything  is 
silent  in  Dreamthorp.  The  smith's  hammer  re- 
poses beside  the  anvil.  The  weaver's  flying  shuttle 
is  at  rest.  Through  the  clear  wintry  sunshine  the 
bells  this  morning  rang  from  the  grey  church 
tower  amid  the  leafless  elms,  and  up  the  walk  the 
villagers  trooped  in  their  best  dresses  and  their 
best  faces — the  latter  a  little  reddened  by  the 
sharp  wind  :  mere  redness  in  the  middle  aged ;  in 
the  maids,  wonderful  bloom  to  the  eyes  of  their 
lovers — and  took  their  places  decently  in  the  ancient 
pews.  The  clerk  read  the  beautiful  prayers  of  our 
Church,  which  seem  more  beautiful  at  Christmas 
than  at  any  other  period.  For  that  very  feeling  which 
breaks  down  at  this  time  the  barriers  which  custom, 
birth,  or  wealth  have  erected  between  man  and 
man,  strikes  down  the  barrier  of  time  which  inter- 
venes between  the  worshipper  of  to-day  and  the 
great  body  of  worshippers  who  are  at  rest  in  their 
graves.  On  such  a  day  as  this,  hearing  these 
prayers,  we  feel  a  kinship  with  the  devout  genera- 
tions who  heard  them  long  ago.  The  devout  lips 
of  the  Christian  dead  murmured  the  reponses  which 
we  now  murmur ;  along  this  road  of  prayer  did 
their  thoughts  of  our  innumerable  dead,  our 
brothers  and  sisters  in  faith  and  hope,  approach 
the  Maker,  even  as  ours  at  present  approach  Him. 
Prayers  over,  the  clergyman — who  is  no  Boanerges, 
or  Chrysostom,  golden-mouthed,  but  a  loving, 
genial-hearted,  pious  man,  the  whole  extent  of  his 
life  from  boyhood  until  now,  full  of  charity  and 
kindly  deeds,  as  autumn  fields  with  heavy  wheaten 
ears ;   the  clergyman,  I   say — for   the  sentence  is 


ii8  CHRISTMAS 

becoming  unwieldly  on  my  hands,  and  one  must 
double  back  to  secure  connection — read  out  in 
that  silvery  voice  of  his,  which  is  sweeter  than  any 
music  to  my  ear,  those  chapters  of  the  New  Testa- 
ment that  deal  with  the  birth  of  the  Saviour. 
And  the  red-faced  rustic  congregation  hung  on  the 
good  man's  voice  as  he  spoke  of  the  Infant  brought 
forth  in  a  manger,  of  the  shining  angels  that 
appeared  in  midair  to  the  shepherds,  of  the 
miraculous  star  that  took  its  station  in  the  sky,  and 
•of  the  wise  men  who  came  from  afar  and  laid  their 
gifts  of  frankincense  and  myrrh  at  the  feet  of  the 
child.  With  the  story  every  one  was  familiar,  but 
on  that  day,  and  backed  by  the  persuasive  melody 
of  the  reader's  voice,  it  seemed  to  all  quite  new — 
at  least,  they  listened  attentively  as  if  it  were.  The 
discourse  that  followed  possessed  no  remarkable 
thoughts ;  it  dealt  simply  with  the  goodness  of  the 
Maker  of  heaven  and  earth,  and  the  shortness  of 
time,  with  the  duties  of  thankfulness  and  charity  to 
the  poor ;  and  I  am  persuaded  that  every  one  who 
heard  returned  to  his  house  in  a  better  frame  of 
mind.  And  so  the  service  remitted  us  all  to  our 
own  homes,  to  what  roast-beef  and  plum-pudding 
slender  means  permitted,  to  gatherings  around 
cheerful  fires,  to  half-pleasant,  half-sad  remem- 
brances of  the  dead  and  the  absent. 

From  sermon  I  have  returned  like  the  others, 
and  it  is  my  purpose  to  hold  Christmas  alone.  I 
have  no  one  with  me  at  table,  and  my  own  thoughts 
must  be  my  Christmas  guests.  Sitting  here,  it  is 
pleasant  to  think  how  much  kindly  feeling  exists 
this  present  night  in  England.     By  imagination  I 


CHRISTMAS  119 

can  taste  of  every  table,  pledge  every  toast,  silently 
join  in  every  roar  of  merriment.  I  become  a 
sort  of  universal  guest.  With  what  propriety  is 
this  jovial  season  placed  amid  dismal  December 
rains  and  snows  !  How  one  pities  the  unhappy 
Australians,  with  whom  everything  is  turned  topsy- 
turvy, and  who  hold  Christmas  at  midsummer ! 
The  face  of  Christmas  glows  all  the  brighter  for 
the  cold.  The  heart  warms  as  the  frost  increases. 
Estrangements  which  have  embittered  the  whole 
year,  melt  in  to-night's  hospitable  smile.  There 
are  warmer  hand-shakings  on  this  night  than  during 
the  bypast  twelve  months.  Friend  lives  in  the 
mind  of  friend.  There  is  more  charity  at  this 
time  than  at  any  other.  You  get  up  at  midnight 
and  toss  your  spare  coppers  to  the  half-benumbed 
musicians  whiffling  beneath  your  windows,  although 
at  any  other  time  you  would  consider  their  per- 
formance a  nuisance,  and  call  angrily  for  the 
poHce. 

Poverty,  and  scanty  clothing,  and  fireless  grateS) 
come  home  at  this  season  to  the  bosoms  of  the 
rich,  and  they  give  of  their  abundance.  The 
very  redbreast  of  the  woods  enjoys  his  Christmas 
feast.  Good  feeling  incarnates  itself  in  plum- 
pudding.  The  Master's  words,  "  The  poor  ye  have 
always  with  you,"  wear  at  this  time  a  deep  signific- 
ance. For  at  least  one  night  on  each  year  over  all 
Christendom  there  is  brotherhood.  And  good 
men,  sitting  amongst  their  families,  or  by  a  solitary 
fire  like  me,  when  they  remember  the  light  that 
shone  over  the  poor  clowns  huddling  on  the 
Bethlehem  plains  eighteen  hundred  years  ago,  the 


I20  CHRISTMAS 

apparition  of  shining  angels  overhead,  the  song 
"  Peace  on  earth  and  goodwill  toward  men,"  which 
for  the  first  time  hallowed  the  midnight  air — pray 
for  that  strain's  fulfilment,  that  battle  and  strife 
may  vex  the  nations  no  more,  that  not  only  on 
Christmas  Eve,  but  the  whole  year  round,  men 
shall  be  brethren,  owning  one  Father  in  heaven. 

Although  suggested  by  the  season,  and  by  a 
solitary  dinner,  it  is  not  my  purpose  to  indulge  in 
personal  reminiscence  and  talk.  Let  all  that  pass. 
This  is  Christmas  Day,  the  anniversary  of  the 
world's  greatest  event.  To  one  day  all  the  early 
world  looked  forward ;  to  the  same  day  the  later 
world  looks  back.  That  day  holds  time  together. 
Isaiah,  standing  on  the  peaks  of  prophecy,  looked 
across  ruined  empires  and  the  desolations  of  many 
centuries,  and  saw  on  the  horizon  the  new  star 
arise,  and  was  glad.  On  this  night  eighteen 
hundred  years  ago,  Jove  was  discrowned,  the  Pagan 
heaven  emptied  of  its  divinities,  and  Olympus  left 
to  the  solitude  of  its  snows.  On  this  night,  so 
many  hundred  years  bygone,  the  despairing  voice 
was  heard  shrieking  on  the  -^gean,  "Pan  is  dead! 
great  Pan  is  dead  ! "  On  this  night,  according  to 
the  fine  reverence  of  the  poets,  all  things  that  blast 
and  blight  are  powerless,  disarmed  by  sweet  influ- 
ences : 

"Some  say  that  ever  'gainst  the  season  comes 
Wherein  our  Saviour's  birth  is  celebrated, 
The  bird  of  dawning  singeth  all  night  long; 
And  then  they  say  no  spirit  dares  stir  abroad ; 
The  nights  are  wholesome ;  then  no  planets  strike  ; 
No  fairy  takes,  nor  witch  hath  power  to  charm : 
So  hallow'd  and  so  gracious  is  the  time." 


CHRISTMAS  121 

The  flight  of  the  Pagan  mythology  before  the 
new  faith  has  been  a  favourite  subject  with  the 
poets ;  and  it  has  been  my  custom  for  many 
seasons  to  read  Milton's  "  Hymn  to  the  Nativity  " 
on  the  evening  of  Christmas  Day.  The  bass  of 
heaven's  deep  organ  seems  to  blow  in  the  lines, 
and  slowly  and  with  many  echoes  the  strain  melts- 
into  silence.  To  my  ear  the  lines  sound  like  the 
full-voiced  choir  and  the  rolling  organ  of  a 
cathedral,  when  the  afternoon  light  streaming 
through  the  painted  windows  fills  the  place  with 
solemn  colours  and  masses  of  gorgeous  gloom. 
To-night  I  shall  float  my  lonely  hours  away 
on  music : 

"The  oracles  are  dumb, 
No  voice  or  hideous  hum 
Runs  through  the  arched  roof  in  words  deceiving : 
Apollo  from  his  shrine 
Can  no  more  divine 
With  hollow  shriek  the  steep  of  Delphos  leaving. 
No  nightly  trance  or  breathed  spell 
Inspires  the  pale-eyed  priest  from  the  prophetic  cell, 

"The  lonely  mountains  o'er, 
And  the  resounding  shore, 
A  voice  of  weeping  heard  and  loud  lament : 
From  haunting  spring,  and  dale 
Edged  with  poplars  pale. 
The  parting  genius  is  with  sighing  sent: 
With  flower-enwoven  tresses  torn 
The  nymphs  in  twilight  shades  of  tangled  thickets  mounu 

"  Peor  and  Baalim 

Forsake  their  temples  dim 
With  that  twice-batter'd  god  of  Palestine, 


122  CHRISTMAS 

And  mooned  Ashtaroth, 
Heaven's  queen  and  mother  both, 
Now  sits  not  girt  with  tapers'  holy  shine ! 
The  Lybic  Hammon  shrinks  his  horn, 
In  vain  the  Tyrian  maids  their  wounded  Thammuz  mourn. 

"  And  sullen  Moloch,  fled. 
Hath  left  in  shadows  dread 
His  burning  idol,  all  of  blackest  hue : 
In  vain  with  cymbals'  ring 
They  call  the  grisly  king 
In  dismal  dance  about  the  furnace  blue ; 
The  brutish  gods  of  Nile  as  fast, 
Isis,  and  Orus,  and  the  dog  Anubis  haste. 

"He  feels  from  Juda's  land 
The  dreaded  Infant's  hand, 
The  rays  of  Bethlehem  blind  his  dusky  eyne : 
Nor  all  the  gods  beside 
Dare  longer  there  abide. 
Not  Typhon  huge  ending  in  snaky  twine. 
Our  Babe  to  shew  his  Godhead  true 
Can  in  His  swaddling  bands  control  the  damned  crew." 

These  verses,  as  if  loath  to  die,  linger  with  a 
certain  presistence  in  mind  and  ear.  This  is  the 
"  mighty  line  "  which  critics  talk  about !  And  just 
as  in  an  infant's  face  you  may  discern  the  rudiments 
of  the  future  man,  so  in  the  glorious  hymn  may 
be  traced  the  more  majestic  lineaments  of  the 
"  Paradise  Lost." 

Strangely  enough,  the  next  noblest  dirge  for 
the  unrealmed  divinities  which  I  can  call  to  re- 
membrance, and  at  the  same  time  the  most 
eloquent  celebration  of  the  new  power  and 
prophecy  of  its  triumph,  has  been  uttered  by 
Shelley,    who   cannot   in   any   sense  be  termed  a 


CHRISTMAS  123 

Christian  poet.  It  is  one  of  the  choruses  in 
"Hellas,"  and  perhaps  had  he  lived  longer 
amongst  us,  it  would  have  been  the  prelude  to 
higher  strains.  Of  this  I  am  certain,  that  before 
his  death  the  mind  of  that  brilliant  genius  was 
rapidly  changing — that  for  him  the  cross  was 
gathering  attractions  round  it — that  the  wall  which 
he  complained  had  been  built  up  between  his 
heart  and  his  intellect  was  being  broken  down, 
and  that  rays  of  a  strange  splendour  were  already 
streaming  upon  him  through  the  interstices.  What 
a  contrast  between  the  darkened  glory  of  "  Queen 
Mab " — of  which  in  after-life  he  was  ashamed, 
both  as  a  literary  work  and  as  an  expression  of 
opinion — and  the  intense,  clear,  lyrical  light  of  this 
triumphant  poem ! 

"A  power  from  the  unknown  God, 
A  Promethean  conqueror  came : 
Like  a  triumphal  path  he  trod 
The  thorns  of  death  and  shame. 

A  mortal  shape  to  him 

Was  like  the  vapour  dim 
Which  the  orient  planet  animates  with  light. 

Hell,  sin,  and  slavery  came, 

Like  bloodhounds  mild  and  tame, 
Nor  prey'd  until  their  lord  had  taken  flight. 

The  moon  of  Mahomet 

Arose,  and  it  shall  set ; 
While  blazon'd,  as  on  heaven's  immortal  noon. 

The  Cross  leads  generations  on. 

*'  Swift  as  the  radiant  shapes  of  sleep. 
From  one  whose  dreams  are  paradise, 
Fly,  when  the  fond  wretch  wakes  to  weep, 
And  day  peers  forth  with  her  blank  eyes : 


124  CHRISTMAS 

So  fleet,  so  faint,  so  fair, 

The  powers  of  earth  and  air 
Fled  from  the  folding  star  of  Bethlehem. 

Apollo,  Pan,  and  Love, 

And  even  Olympian  Jove, 
Grew  weak,  for  killing  Truth  had  glared  on  them. 

Our  hills,  and  seas,  and  streams. 

Dispeopled  of  their  dreams. 
Their  waters  turn'd  to  blood,  their  dew  to  tears, 

Wail'd  for  the  golden  years." 

For  my  own  part,  I  cannot  read  these  lines  without 
emotion — not  so  much  for  their  beauty  as  for  the 
change  in  the  writer's  mind  wiiich  they  suggest. 
The  self-sacrifice  which  lies  at  the  centre  of 
Christianity  should  have  touched  this  man  more 
deeply  than  almost  any  other.  That  it  was 
beginning  to  touch  and  mould  him,  I  verily 
believe.  He  died  and  made  that  sign.  Of  what 
music  did  that  storm  in  Spezia  Bay  rob  the 
world ! 

"The  Cross  leads  generations  on."  Believing 
as  I  do  that  my  own  personal  decease  is  not  more 
certain  than  that  our  religion  will  subdue  the  world, 
I  own  that  it  is  with  a  somewhat  saddened  heart 
that  I  pass  my  thoughts  around  the  globe,  and 
consider  how  distant  is  yet  that  triumph.  There 
are  the  realms  on  which  the  Crescent  beams,  the 
monstrous  many-headed  gods  of  India,  the  China- 
man's heathenism,  the  African's  devil-rites.  These 
are,  to  a  large  extent,  principalities  and  powers  of 
darkness  with  which  our  religion  has  never  been 
brought  into  collision,  save  at  trivial  and  far- 
separated  points,  and  in  these  cases  the  attack  has 
never  been  made  in  strength.     But  what  of  our 


CHRISTMAS  125 

own  Europe — the  home  of  philosophy,  of  poetry, 
and  painting?  Europe,  which  has  produced 
Greece,  and  Rome,  and  England's  centuries  of 
glory;  which  has  been  illumined  by  the  fires  of 
martyrdom ;  which  has  heard  a  Luther  preach ; 
which  has  listened  to  Dante's  "  mystic  unfathom- 
able song  " ;  to  which  Milton  has  opened  the  door 
of  heaven — what  of  it?  And  what,  too,  of  that 
younger  America,  starting  in  its  career  with  all  our 
good  things,  and  enfranchised  of  many  of  our  evils  ? 
Did  not  the  December  sun  now  shining  look  down 
on  thousands  slaughtered  at  Fredericksburg,  in  a 
most  mad,  most  incomprehensible  quarrel?  And 
is  not  the  public  air  which  European  nations 
breathe  at  this  moment,  as  it  has  been  for  several 
years  back,  charged  with  thunder?  Despots  are 
plotting,  ships  are  building,  man's  ingenuity  is 
bent,  as  it  never  was  bent  before,  on  the  invention 
and  improvement  of  instruments  of  death ;  Europe 
is  bristling  with  five  millions  of  bayonets :  and 
this  is  the  condition  of  a  world  for  which  the  Son 
of  God  died  eighteen  hundred  and  sixty-two  years 
ago! 

There  is  no  mystery  of  Providence  so  in- 
scrutable as  this ;  and  yet,  is  not  the  very  sense 
of  its  mournfulness  a  proof  that  the  spirit  of 
Christianity  is  living  in  the  minds  of  men?  For, 
of  a  verity,  military  glory  is  becoming  in  our  best 
thoughts  a  bloody  rag,  and  conquest  the  first  in 
the  catalogue  of  mighty  crimes,  and  a  throned 
tyrant,  with  armies,  and  treasures,  and  the  cheers 
of  millions  rising  up  like  a  cloud  of  incense 
around  him,  but  a  mark  for  the  thunderbolt  of 


126  CHRISTMAS 

Almighty  God — in  reality  poorer  than  Lazarus 
stretched  at  the  gate  of  Dives.  Besides,  all  these 
things  are  getting  themselves  to  some  extent 
mitigated.  Florence  Nightingale — for  the  first 
time  in  the  history  of  the  world — walks  through 
the  Scutari  hospitals,  and  "poor,  noble,  wounded, 
and  sick  men,"  to  use  her  Majesty's  tender  phrases, 
kiss  her  shadow  as  it  falls  on  them.  The  Emperor 
Napoleon  does  not  make  war  to  employ  his 
armies,  or  to  consolidate  his  power;  he  does  so 
for  the  sake  of  an  "idea"  more  or  less  generous 
and  disinterested.  The  soul  of  mankind  would 
revolt  at  the  blunt,  naked  truth ;  and  the  taciturn 
emperor  knows  this,  as  he  knows  most  things. 
This  imperial  hypocrisy,  like  every  other  hypocrisy, 
is  a  homage  which  vice  pays  to  virtue.  There 
cannot  be  a  doubt  that  when  the  political  crimes 
of  kings  and  governments,  the  sores  that  fester  in 
the  heart  of  society,  and  all  "the  burden  of  the 
unintelligible  world,"  weigh  heaviest  on  the  mind, 
we  have  to  thank  Christianity  for  it.  That  pure 
light  makes  visible  the  darkness.  The  Sermon 
on  the  Mount  makes  the  morality  of  the  nations 
ghastly.  The  Divine  love  makes  human  hate 
stand  out  in  dark  relief. 

This  sadness,  in  the  essence  of  it  nobler 
than  any  joy,  is  the  heritage  of  the  Christian. 
An  ancient  Roman  could  not  have  felt  so. 
Everything  runs  on  smoothly  enough  so  long  as 
Jove  wields  the  thunder.  But  Venus,  Mars, 
and  Minerva  are  far  behind  us  now;  the 
Cross  is  before  us ;  and  self-denial  and  sorrow  for 
sin,  and  the  remembrance  of  the  poor,  and  the 


CHRISTMAS  127 

cleansing  of  our  own  hearts,  are  duties  incumbent 
upon  every  one  of  us.  If  the  Christian  is  less 
happy  than  the  Pagan,  and  at  times  I  think  he  is 
so,  it  arises  from  the  reproach  of  the  Christian's 
unreached  ideal,  and  from  the  stings  of  his  finer 
and  more  scrupulous  conscience.  His  whole 
moral  organisation  is  finer,  and  he  must  pay  the 
noble  penalty  of  finer  organisations. 

Once  again,  for  the  purpose  of  taking  away  all 
solitariness  of  feeling,  and  of  connecting  myself, 
albeit  only  in  fancy,  with  the  proper  gladness  of 
the  time,  let  me  think  of  the  comfortable  family 
dinners  now  being  drawn  to  a  close,  of  the  good 
wishes  uttered,  and  the  presents  made,  quite 
valueless  in  themselves,  yet  felt  to  be  invaluable 
from  the  feelings  from  which  they  spring;  of  the 
little  children,  by  sweetmeats  lapped  in  Elysium ; 
and  of  the  pantomime,  pleasantest  Christmas  sight 
of  all,  with  the  pit  a  sea  of  grinning  delight,  the 
boxes  a  tier  of  beaming  juvenility,  the  galleries, 
piled  up  to  the  far-receding  roof,  a  mass  of  happy 
laughter  which  a  clown's  joke  brings  down  in 
mighty  avalanches.  In  the  pit,  sober  people  relax 
themselves,  and  suck  oranges,  and  quaff  ginger- 
pop  ;  in  the  boxes.  Miss,  gazing  through  her  curls, 
thinks  the  Fairy  Prince  the  prettiest  creature  she 
ever  beheld,  and  Master,  that  to  be  a  clown  must 
be  the  pinnacle  of  human  happiness ;  while  up  in 
the  galleries  the  hard  literal  world  is  for  an  hour 
sponged  out  and  obliterated;  the  chimney-sweep 
forgets,  in  his  delight  when  the  policeman  comes 
to  grief,  the  harsh  call  of  his  master,  and  Cinderella, 
when  the  demons  are  foiled,  and  the  long-parted 


128  CHRISTMAS 

lovers  meet  and  embrace  in  a  paradise  of  light  and 
pink  gauze,  the  grates  that  must  be  scrubbed  to- 
morrow. All  bands  and  trappings  of  toil  are  for 
one  hour  loosened  by  the  hands  of  imaginative 
sympathy.  What  happiness  a  single  theatre  can 
contain !  And  those  of  maturer  years,  or  of  more 
meditative  temperament,  sitting  at  the  pantomime, 
can  extract  out  of  the  shifting  scenes  meanings 
suitable  to  themselves;  for  the  pantomime  is  a 
symbol  or  adumbration  of  human  life.  Have  we 
not  all  known  Harlequin,  who  rules  the  roast,  and 
has  the  pretty  Columbine  to  himself?  Do  we  not 
all  know  that  rogue  of  a  clown  with  his  peculating 
fingers,  who  brazens  out  of  every  scrape,  and  who 
conquers  the  world  by  good  humour  and  ready 
wit?  And  have  we  not  seen  Pantaloons  not  a 
few,  whose  fate  it  is  to  get  all  the  kicks  and  lose 
all  the  halfpence,  to  fall  through  all  the  trap-doors, 
break  their  shins  over  all  the  barrows,  and  be  for 
ever  captured  by  the  policeman,  while  the  true 
pilferer,  the  clown,  makes  his  escape  with  the 
booty  in  his  possession?  Methinks  I  know  the 
realities  of  which  these  things  are  but  the  shadows ; 
have  met  with  them  in  business,  have  sat  with 
them  at  dinner.  But  to-night  no  such  notions  as 
these  intrude;  and  when  the  torrent  of  fun,  and 
transformation,  and  practical  joking  which  rushed 
out  of  the  beautiful  fairy  world,  is  in  the  beautiful 
fairy  world  gathered  up  again,  the  high-heaped 
happiness  of  the  theatre  will  disperse  itself,  and 
the  Christmas  pantomime  will  be  a  pleasant 
memory  the  whole  year  through.  Thousands  on 
thousands    of    people    are    having   their    midriffs 


CHRISTMAS  129 

tickled   at   this    moment;    in   fancy    I    see   their 
lighted  faces,  in  memory  I  hear  their  mirth. 

By  this  time  I  should  think  every  Christmas 
dinner  at  Dreamthorp  or  elsewhere  has  come  to 
an  end.  Even  now  in  the  great  cities  the  theatres 
will  be  dispersing.  The  clown  has  wiped  the 
paint  off  his  face.  Harlequin  has  laid  aside  his 
wand,  and  divested  himself  of  his  glittering  rai- 
ment ;  Pantaloon,  after  refreshing  himself  with  a 
pint  of  porter,  is  rubbing  his  aching  joints;  and 
Columbine,  wrapped  up  in  a  shawl,  and  with 
sleepy  eyelids,  has  gone  home  in  a  cab.  Soon, 
in  the  great  theatre,  the  lights  will  be  put  out,  and 
the  empty  stage  will  be  left  to  ghosts.  Hark ! 
midnight  from  the  church  tower  vibrates  through 
the  frosty  air.  I  look  out  on  the  brilliant  heaven, 
and  see  a  milky  way  of  powdery  splendour  wander- 
ing through  it,  and  clusters  and  knots  of  stars  and 
planets  shining  serenely  in  the  blue  frosty  spaces ; 
and  the  armed  apparition  of  Orion,  his  spear 
pointing  away  into  immeasurable  space,  gleaming 
overhead ;  and  the  familiar  constellation  of  the 
Plough  dipping  down  into  the  west ;  and  I  think 
when  I  go  in  again  that  there  is  one  Christmas  the 
less  between  me  and  my  grave. 


MEN  OF  LETTERS. 

MR.  HAZLITT  has  written  many  pleasant 
essays,  but  none  pleasanter  than  that 
entitled  "  My  First  Acquaintance  with  Poets," 
which,  in  the  edition  edited  by  his  son,  opens 
the  Wintersloe  series.  It  relates  almost  entirely  to 
Coleridge;  containing  sketches  of  his  personal 
appearance,  fragments  of  his  conversation,  and  is 
filled  with  a  young  man's  generous  enthusiasm, 
belief,  admiration,  as  with  sunrise.  He  had  met 
Coleridge,  walked  with  him,  talked  with  him,  and 
the  high  intellectual  experience  not  only  made  him 
better  acquainted  with  his  own  spirit  and  its  folded 
powers,  but — as  is  ever  the  case  with  such  spiritual 
encounters — it  touched  and  illuminated  the  dead 
outer  world.  The  road  between  Wem  and  Shrews- 
bury was  familiar  enough  to  Hazlitt,  but  as  the 
twain  passed  along  it  on  that  winter  day,  it  became 
etherealised,  poetic — wonderful,  as  if  leading  across 
the  Delectable  Mountains  to  the  Golden  City, 
whose  gleam  is  discernible  on  the  horizon.  The 
milestones  were  mute  with  attention,  the  pines 
upon   the   hill   had  ears   for   the  stranger   as   he 

passed.     Eloquence  made  the  red  leaves  rustle  on 
130 


MEN  OF  LETTERS  131 

the  oak;  made  the  depth  of  heaven  seem  as  if 
swept  by  a  breath  of  spring ;  and  when  the  evening 
star  appeared,  Hazlitt  saw  it  as  Adam  did  while  in 
Paradise  and  but  one  day  old.  "As  we  passed 
along,"  writes  the  essayist,  "between  Wem  and 
Shrewsbury,  and  I  eyed  the  blue  hilltops  seen 
through  the  wintry  branches,  or  the  red,  rustling 
leaves  of  the  sturdy  oak  trees  by  the  wayside,  a 
sound  was  in  my  ears  as  of  a  syren's  song.  I  was 
stunned,  startled  with  it  as  from  deep  sleep ;  but  I 
had  no  notion  that  I  should  ever  be  able  to  express 
my  admiration  to  others  in  motley  imagery  or 
quaint  allusion,  till  the  light  of  his  genius  shone 
into  my  soul,  like  the  sun's  rays  glittering  in  the 
puddles  of  the  road.  I  was  at  that  time  dumb, 
inarticulate,  helpless,  like  a  worm  by  the  wayside, 
crushed,  bleeding,  lifeless;  but  now,  bursting  from 
the  deadly  bands  that  bound  them,  my  ideas  float 
on  winged  words,  and  as  they  expand  their  plumes, 
catch  the  golden  light  of  other  years.  My  soul 
has  indeed  remained  in  its  original  bondage,  dark, 
obscure,  with  longings  infinite  and  unsatisfied ; 
my  heart,  shut  up  in  the  prison-house  of  this 
rude  clay,  has  never  found,  nor  will  it  ever  find, 
a  heart  to  speak  to;  but  that  my  understanding 
also  did  not  remain  dumb  and  brutish,  or  at  length 
found  a  language  to  express  itself,  I  owe  to 
Coleridge." 

Time  and  sorrow,  personal  ambition  thwarted 
and  fruitlessly  driven  back  on  itself,  hopes  for  the 
world  defeated  and  unrealised,  changed  the  en- 
thusiastic youth  into  a  petulant,  unsocial  man; 
yet  ever  as  he  remembered  that  meeting  and  his 


132  MEN  OF  LETTERS 

wintry  walk  from  Wem  to  Shrewsbury,  the  early 
glow  came  back,  and  again  a  "sound  was  in  his 
ears  as  of  a  syren's  song." 

We  are  not  all  hero-worshippers  like  Hazlitt,  but 
most  of  us  are  so  to  a  large  extent.  A  large  pro- 
portion of  mankind  feel  a  quite  peculiar  interest  in 
famous  writers.  They  like  to  read  about  them,  to 
know  what  they  said  on  this  or  the  other  occasion, 
what  sort  of  house  they  inhabited,  what  fashion  of 
dress  they  wore,  if  they  liked  any  particular  dish 
for  dinner,  what  kind  of  women  they  fell  in  love 
with,  and  whether  their  domestic  atmosphere  was 
stormy  or  the  reverse.  Concerning  such  men  no 
bit  of  information  is  too  trifling ;  everything  helps 
to  make  out  the  mental  image  we  have  dimly 
formed  for  ourselves.  And  this  kind  of  interest  is 
heightened  by  the  artistic  way  in  which  time 
occasionally  groups  them.  The  race  is  gregarious, 
they  are  visible  to  us  in  clumps  like  primroses, 
they  are  brought  into  neighbourhood  and  flash 
light  on  each  other  like  gems  in  a  diadem.  We 
think  of  the  wild  geniuses  who  came  up  from  the 
universities  to  London  in  the  dawn  of  the  English 
drama.  Greene,  Nash,  Marlowe — our  first  profes- 
sional men  of  letters  —  how  they  cracked  their 
satirical  whips,  how  they  brawled  in  taverns,  how 
pinched  they  were  at  times,  how,  when  they 
possessed  money,  they  flung  it  from  them  as  if  it 
were  poison,  with  what  fierce  speed  they  wrote, 
how  they  shook  the  stage.  Then  we  think  of 
the  "  Mermaid "  in  session,  with  Shakspeare's 
bland,  oval  face,  the  light  of  a  smile  spread 
over  it,  and   Ben   Jonson's   truculent  visage,  and 


MEN  OF  LETTERS  133 

Beaumont  and  Fletcher  sitting  together  in  their 
beautiful  friendship,  and  fancy  as  best  we  can 
the  drollery,  the  repartee,  the  sage  sentences, 
the  lightning  gleams  of  wit,  the  thunder-peals  of 
laughter. 

"  What  things  have  we  seen 
Done  at  the  Mermaid?     Heard  words  that  hath  been 
So  nimble,  and  so  full  of  subtle  flame, 
As  if  that  every  one  from  whence  they  came 
Had  meant  to  put  his  whole  soul  in  a  jest, 
And  had  resolved  to  live  a  fool  the  rest 
Of  his  dull  life." 

Then  there  is  the  "  Literary  Club,"  with  Johnson, 
and  Garrick,  and  Burke,  and  Reynolds,  and 
Goldsmith  sitting  in  perpetuity  in  Boswell.  The 
Doctor  has  been  talking  there  for  a  hundred  years, 
and  there  will  he  talk  for  many  a  hundred  more. 
And  we  of  another  generation,  and  with  other 
things  to  think  about,  can  enter  any  night  we 
please,  and  hear  what  is  going  on.  Then  we  have 
the  swarthy  ploughman  from  Ayrshire  sitting  at 
Lord  Monboddo's  with  Dr.  Blair,  Dugald  Stewart, 
Henry  Mackenzie,  and  the  rest.  These  went  into 
the  presence  of  the  wonderful  rustic  thoughtlessly 
enough,  and  now  they  cannot  return  even  if  they 
would.  They  are  defrauded  of  oblivion.  Not  yet 
have  they  tasted  forgetfulness  and  the  grave.  The 
day  may  come  when  Burns  shall  be  forgotten,  but 
till  that  day  arrives — and  the  eastern  sky  as  yet 
gives  no  token  of  its  approach — him  they  must 
attend  as  satellites  the  sun,  as  courtiers  their  king. 
Then  there  are  the  Lakers — Wordsworth,  Cole- 
ridge,   Southey,   De   Quincey  burdened   with   his 


134  MEN  OF  LETTERS 

tremendous  dream,  Wilson  in  his  splendid  youth. 
What  talk,  what  argument,  what  readings  of  lyrical 
and  other  ballads,  what  contempt  of  critics,  what 
a  hail  of  fine  things !  Then  there  is  Charles 
Lamb's  room  in  Inner  Temple  Lane,  the  hush  of 
a  whist  table  in  one  corner,  the  host  stuttering 
puns  as  he  deals  the  cards;  and  sitting  round 
about.  Hunt,  whose  every  sentence  is  flavoured 
with  the  hawthorn  and  the  primrose,  and  Hazlitt 
maddened  by  Waterloo  and  St.  Helena,  and 
Godwin  with  his  wild  theories,  and  Kemble  with 
his  Roman  look.  And  before  the  morning  comes, 
and  Lamb  stutters  yet  more  thickly — for  there  is 
a  slight  flavour  of  punch  in  the  apartment — what 
talk  there  has  been  of  Hogarth's  prints,  of  Isaac 
Walton,  of  the  old  dramatists,  of  Sir  Thomas 
Browne's  "  Urn  Burial,"  with  Elia's  quaint  humour 
breaking  through  every  interstice,  and  flower- 
ing in  every  fissure  and  cranny  of  the  conver- 
sation ! 

One  likes  to  think  of  these  social  gatherings  of 
wits  and  geniuses ;  they  are  more  interesting  than 
conclaves  of  kings  or  convocations  of  bishops. 
One  would  like  to  have  been  the  waiter  at  the 
"Mermaid,"  and  to  have  stood  behind  Shak- 
speare's  chair.  What  was  that  functionary's 
opinion  of  his  guests  ?  Did  he  listen  and  become 
witty  by  infection  ?  or  did  he,  when  his  task  was 
over,  retire  unconcernedly  to  chalk  up  the  tavern 
score?  One  envies  somewhat  the  damsel  who 
brought  Lamb  the  spirit-case  and  the  hot  water. 
I  think  of  these  meetings,  and,  in  lack  of  compan- 
ionship, frame  for  myself  imaginary  conversations 


MEN  OF  LETTERS  135 

— not  so  brillant,  of  course,  as  Mr.  Landor's,  but 
yet  sufficient  to  make  pleasant  for  me  the  twilight 
hour  while  the  lamp  is  yet  unlit,  and  my  solitary 
room  is  filled  with  the  ruddy  lights  and  shadows 
of  the  fire. 

Of  human  notabilities  men  of  letters  are  the 
most  interesting,  and  this  arises  mainly  from  their 
outspokenness  as  a  class.  The  writer  makes  him- 
self known  in  a  way  that  no  other  man  makes 
himself  known.  The  distinguished  engineer  may 
be  as  great  a  man  as  the  distinguished  writer,  but 
as  a  rule  we  know  little  about  him.  We  see  him 
invent  a  locomotive,  or  bridge  a  strait,  but  there 
our  knowledge  stops ;  we  look  at  the  engine,  we 
walk  across  the  bridge,  we  admire  the  ingenuity  of 
the  one,  we  are  grateful  for  the  conveniency  of  the 
other,  but  to  our  apprehensions  the  engineer  is 
undeciphered  all  the  while.  Doubtless  he  reveals 
himself  in  his  work  as  the  poet  reveals  himself 
in  his  song,  but  then  this  revelation  is  made 
in  a  tongue  unknown  to  the  majority.  After 
all,  we  do  not  feel  that  we  get  nearer  him.  The 
man  of  letters,  on  the  other  hand,  is  outspoken,  he 
takes  you  into  his  confidence,  he  keeps  no  secret 
from  you.  Be  you  beggar,  be  you  king,  you  are 
welcome.  He  is  no  respector  of  persons.  He 
gives  without  reserve  his  fancies,  his  wit,  his 
wisdom;  he  makes  you  a  present  of  all  that  the 
painful  or  the  happy  years  have  brought  him.  The 
writer  makes  his  reader  heir  in  full.  Men  of 
letters  are  a  peculiar  class.  They  are  never  com- 
monplace or  prosaic — at  least  those  of  them  that 
mankind  care  for.     They  are  airy,  wise,  gloomy, 


136  MEN  OF  LETTERS 

melodious  spirits.  They  give  us  the  language  we 
speak,  they  furnish  the  subjects  of  our  best  talk. 
They  are  full  of  generous  impulses  and  sentiments, 
and  keep  the  world  young.  They  have  said  fine 
things  on  every  phase  of  human  experience.  The 
air  is  full  of  their  voices.  Their  books  are  the 
world's  holiday  and  playground,  and  into  these 
neither  care,  nor  the  dun,  nor  despondency  can 
follow  the  enfranchised  man.  Men  of  letters 
forerun  science  as  the  morning  star  the  dawn. 
Nothing  has  been  invented,  nothing  has  been 
achieved,  but  has  gleamed  a  bright-coloured  Utopia 
in  the  eyes  of  one  or  the  other  of  these  men. 
Several  centuries  before  the  Great  Exhibition 
of  185 1  rose  in  Hyde  Park,  a  wondrous  hall  of 
glass  stood,  radiant  in  sunlight,  in  the  verse  of 
Chaucer. 

The  electric  telegraph  is  not  so  swift  as  the  flight 
of  Puck.  We  have  not  yet  realised  the  hippogriff 
of  Ariosto.  Just  consider  what  a  world  this  would 
be  if  ruled  by  the  best  thoughts  of  men  of  letters  ! 
Ignorance  would  die  at  once,  war  would  cease, 
taxation  would  be  lightened,  not  only  every 
Frenchman,  but  every  man  in  the  world,  would 
have  his  hen  in  the  pot.  May  would  not  marry 
January.  The  race  of  lawyers  and  physicians 
would  be  extinct.  Fancy  a  world,  the  affairs  of 
which  are  directed  by  Goethe's  wisdom  and 
Goldsmith's  heart !  In  such  a  case  methinks  the 
millennium  were  already  come.  Books  are  a  finer 
world  within  the  world.  With  books  are  connected 
all  my  desires  and  aspirations.  When  I  go  to  my 
long  sleep,  on  a  book  will  my  head  be  pillowed. 


MEN  OF  LETTERS  137 

I  care  for  no  other  fashion  of  greatness.  I'd  as 
lief  not  be  remembered  at  all  as  remembered  in 
connection  with  anything  else.  I  would  rather  be 
Charles  Lamb  than  Charles  xii.  I  would  rather 
be  remembered  by  a  song  than  by  a  victory.  I 
would  rather  build  a  fine  sonnet  than  have  built 
St.  Paul's.  I  would  rather  be  the  discoverer  of  a 
new  image  than  the  discoverer  of  a  new  planet. 
Fine  phrases  I  value  more  than  banknotes.  I 
have  ear  for  no  other  harmony  than  the  harmony 
of  words.  To  be  occasionally  quoted  is  the  only 
fame  I  care  for. 

But  what  of  the  literary  life  ?  How  fares  it  with 
the  men  whose  days  and  nights  are  devoted  to  the 
writing  of  books  ?  We  know  the  famous  men  of 
letters,  we  give  them  the  highest  place  in  our 
regards ;  we  crown  them  with  laurels  so  thickly 
that  we  hide  the  furrows  on  their  foreheads.  Yet 
we  must  remember  that  there  are  men  of  letters 
who  have  been  equally  sanguine,  equally  ardent, 
who  have  pursued  perfection  equally  unselfishly, 
but  who  have  failed  to  make  themselves  famous. 
We  know  the  ships  that  come  with  streaming 
pennons  into  the  immortal  ports;  we  know  but 
little  of  the  ships  that  have  gone  on  fire  on  the 
way  thither — that  have  gone  down  at  sea.  Even 
with  successful  men  we  cannot  know  precisely  how 
matters  have  gone.  We  read  the  fine  raptures  of 
the  poet,  but  we  do  not  know  into  what  kind  of 
being  he  relapses  when  the  inspiration  is  over, 
any  more  than,  seeing  and  hearing  the  lark  shrilling 
at  the  gate  of  heaven,  we  know  with  what  effort  it 
has  climbed  thither,  or  into  what  kind  of  nest  it 


138  MEN  OF  LETTERS 

must  descend.  The  lark  is  not  always  singing; 
no  more  is  the  poet.  The  lark  is  only  interesting 
while  singing,  at  other  times  it  is  but  a  plain  brown 
bird.  We  may  not  be  able  to  recognise  the  poet 
when  he  doffs  his  singing  robes ;  he  may  then  sink 
to  the  level  of  his  admirers.  We  laugh  at  the 
fancies  of  the  humorist,  but  he  may  have  written 
his  brilliant  things  in  a  dismal  enough  mood. 
The  writer  is  not  continually  dwelling  amongst 
the  roses  and  lilies  of  life,  he  is  not  continually 
uttering  generous  sentiments,  and  saying  fine 
things.  On  him,  as  on  his  brethren,  the  world 
presses  with  its  prosaic  needs.  He  has  to  make 
love  and  marry,  and  run  the  usual  matrimonial 
risks.  The  income-tax  collector  visits  him  as 
well  as  others.  Around  his  head  at  Christmas- 
times  drives  a  snowstorm  of  bills.  He  must  keep 
the  wolf  from  the  door,  and  he  has  only  his 
goose-quills  to  confront  it  with.  And  here  it  is, 
having  to  deal  with  alien  powers,  that  his  special 
temperament  comes  into  play,  and  may  work  him 
evil. 

Wit  is  not  worldly  wisdom.  A  man  gazing 
on  the  stars  is  proverbially  at  the  mercy  of  the 
puddles  on  the  road.  A  man  may  be  able  to 
disentangle  intricate  problems,  be  able  to  recall 
the  past,  and  yet  be  cozened  by  an  ordinary  knave. 
The  finest  expression  will  not  liquidate  a  butcher's 
account.  If  Apollo  puts  his  name  to  a  bill,  he 
must  meet  it  when  it  becomes  due,  or  go  into  the 
Gazette.  Armies  are  not  always  cheering  on  the 
heights  which  they  have  won;  there  are  forced 
marches,     occasional     shortness     of    provisions, 


MEN  OF  LETTERS  139 

bivouacs  on  muddy  plains,  driving  in  of  pickets, 
and  the  like,  although  these  inglorious  items  are 
forgotten  when  we  read  the  roll  of  victories 
inscribed  on  their  banners.  The  books  of  the 
great  writer  are  only  portions  of  the  great  writer. 
His  life  acts  on  his  writings :  his  writings  react 
on  his  life.  His  life  may  impoverish  his  books  ; 
his  books  may  impoverish  his  life.     Apollo's 

"  branch  that  might  have  grown  full  straight," 

may  have  the  worm  of  a  vulgar  misery  gnawing 
at  its  roots.  The  heat  of  inspiration  may  be 
subtracted  from  the  household  fire;  and  those 
who  sit  by  it  may  be  the  colder  in  consequence. 
A  man  may  put  all  his  good  things  in  his  books, 
and  leave  none  for  his  life,  just  as  a  man  may 
expend  his  fortune  on  a  splendid  dress,  and  carry 
a  pang  of  hunger  beneath  it. 

There  are  few  less  exhilarating  books  than  the 
biographies  of  men  of  letters,  and  of  artists 
generally ;  and  this  arises  from  the  pictures  of 
comparative  defeat  which,  in  almost  every  instance, 
such  books  contain.  In  these  books  we  see  failure 
more  or  less — seldom  clear,  victorious  effort.  If 
the  art  is  exquisite,  the  marble  is  flawed;  if  the 
marble  is  pure,  there  is  defect  in  art.  There  is 
always  something  lacking  in  the  poem;  there  is 
always  irremediable  defect  in  the  picture.  In  the 
biography  we  see  persistent,  passionate  effort,  and 
almost  constant  repulse.  If,  on  the  whole,  victory 
is  gained,  one  wing  of  the  army  has  been  thrown 
into  confusion.  In  the  life  of  a  successful  farmer, 
for  instance,  one  feels  nothing  of  this  kind;  his 


440  MEN  OF  LETTERS 

year  flows  on  harmoniously,  fortunately:  through 
ploughing,  seed-time,  growth  of  grain,  the  yellowing 
of  it  beneath  meek  autumn  suns  and  big  autumn 
moons,  the  cutting  of  it   down,   riotous   harvest- 
home,  final  sale,  and  large  balance  at  the  banker's. 
From  the  point  of  view  of  almost  unvarying  success 
the  farmer's  life  becomes  beautiful,  poetic.     Every- 
thing is  an  aid  and  help  to  him.     Nature  puts  her 
shoulder  to  his  wheel.     He  takes  the  winds,  the 
clouds,    the    sunbeams,    the    rolling    stars    into 
partnership,   and,    asking    no    dividend,   they   let 
him  retain  the  entire  profits.     As  a  rule,  the  lives 
of  men  of  letters  do  not  flow  on  in  this  successful 
way.     In  their  case  there  is  always  either  defect 
in  the  soil  or  defect  in  the  husbandry.     Like  the 
Old  Guard  at  Waterloo,  they  are  fighting  bravely 
on   a  lost  field.     In   literary   biography   there   is 
always  an   element  of  tragedy,    and  the  love  we 
bear  the  dead  is   mingled   with   pity.     Of  course 
the  life  of  a  man  of  letters  is  more  perilous  than 
the  life  of  a  farmer;   more  perilous  than  almost 
any  other  kind  of  life  which  it  is  given  a  human 
being  to  conduct.     It  is  more  difficult  to  obtain 
the  mastery  over  spiritual  ways  and  means  than 
over  material  ones,  and  he  must  command  both. 
Properly  to   conduct    his    life  he  must  not  only 
take    large    crops   off   his    fields,    he    must   also 
leave    in    his    fields   the    capacity    of  producing 
large  crops.     It  is   easy  to  drive  in  your  chariot 
two  horses  of  one  breed;  not  so  easy  when   the 
one  is  of  terrestrial  stock,  the   other  of  celestial ; 
in    every    respect    different — in    colour,    temper, 
and  pace. 


MEN  OF  LETTERS  I4r 

At  the  outset  of  his  career,  the  man  of  letters 
is  confronted  by  the  fact  that  he  must  live.  The 
obtaining  of  a  livelihood  is  preliminary  to  every- 
thing else.  Poets  and  cobblers  are  placed  on  the 
same  level  so  far.  If  the  writer  can  barter  MSS. 
for  sufficient  coin,  he  may  proceed  to  develop 
himself;  if  he  cannot  so  barter  it,  there  is  a 
speedy  end  of  himself,  and  of  his  development 
also.  Literature  has  become  a  profession ;  but 
it  is  in  several  respects  different  from  the  pro- 
fessions by  which  other  human  beings  earn  their 
bread.  The  man  of  letters,  unlike  the  clergy- 
man, the  physician,  or  the  lawyer,  has  to  undergo 
no  special  preliminary  training  for  his  work,  and 
while  engaged  in  it,  unlike  the  professional 
persons  named,  he  has  no  accredited  status.  Of 
course,  to  earn  any  success,  he  must  start  with 
as  much  special  knowledge,  with  as  much  dex- 
terity in  his  craft,  as  your  ordinary  physician ; 
but  then  he  is  not  recognised  till  once  he  is 
successful. 

When  a  man  takes  a  physician's  degree,  he  has 
done  something ;  when  a  man  betakes  himself 
to  literary  pursuits,  he  has  done  nothing — till 
once  he  is  lucky  enough  to  make  his  mark. 
There  is  no  special  preliminary  training  for  men 
of  letters,  and,  as  a  consequence,  their  ranks  are 
recruited  from  the  vagrant  talent  of  the  world. 
Men  that  break  loose  from  the  professions,  who 
stray  from  the  beaten  tracks  of  life,  take  refuge 
in  literature.  In  it  are  to  be  found  doctors, 
lawyers,  clergymen,  and  the  motley  nation  of 
Bohemians.      Any   one   possessed    of    a    nimble 


142  MEN  OF  LETTERS 

brain,  a  quire  of  paper,  a  steel  pen  and  ink-bottle, 
can  start  business.  Any  one  who  chooses  may 
enter  the  lists,  and  no  questions  are  asked  con- 
cerning his  antecedents.  The  battle  is  won  by 
sheer  strength  of  brain.  From  all  this  it  comes 
that  the  man  of  letters  has  usually  a  history  of  his 
own :  his  individuality  is  more  pronounced  than 
the  individuality  of  other  men;  he  has  been 
knocked  about  by  passion  and  circumstance. 
All  his  life  he  has  had  a  dislike  for  iron  rules  and 
commonplace  maxims.  There  is  something  of 
the  gipsy  in  his  nature.  He  is  to  some  extent 
eccentric,  and  he  indulges  his  eccentricity.  And 
the  misfortunes  of  men  of  letters — the  vulgar  and 
patient  misfortunes,  I  mean — arise  mainly  from 
the  want  of  harmony  between  their  impulsiveness 
and  volatility,  and  the  staid  unmercurial  world 
with  which  they  were  brought  into  conflict.  They 
are  unconventional  in  a  world  of  conventions; 
they  are  fanciful,  and  are  constantly  misunderstood 
in  prosaic  relations.  They  are  wise  enough  in 
their  books,  for  there  they  are  sovereigns,  and 
can  shape  everything  to  their  own  likings ;  out 
of  their  books,  they  are  not  unfrequently  extremely 
foolish,  for  they  exist  then  in  the  territory  of  an 
alien  power,  and  are  constantly  knocking  their 
heads  against  existing  orders  of  things. 

Men  of  letters  take  prosaic  men  out  of  them- 
selves ;  but  they  are  weak  where  the  prosaic  men 
are  strong.  They  have  their  own  way  in  the  world 
of  ideas,  prosaic  men  in  the  world  of  facts.  From 
his  practical  errors  the  writer  learns  something,  if 
not  always  humility  and  amendment     A  memorial 


MEN  OF  LETTERS  143 

flower  grows  on  every  spot  where  he  has  come 
to  grief;  and  the  chasm  he  cannot  overleap  he 
bridges  with  a  rainbow. 

But  the  man  of  letters  has  not  only  to  live,  he 
has  to  develop  himself;  and  his  earning  of  money 
and  his  intellectual  development  should  proceed 
simultaneously  and  in  proportionate  degrees. 
Herein  lies  the  main  difficulty  of  the  literary  life. 
Out  of  his  thought  the  man  must  bring  fire,  food, 
clothing;  and  fire,  food,  clothing  must  in  their 
turns  subserve  thought.  It  is  necessary,  for  the 
proper  conduct  of  such  a  life,  that  while  the 
balance  at  the  banker's  increases,  intellectual  re- 
source should  increase  at  the  same  ratio.  Progress 
should  not  be  made  in  the  faculty  of  expression 
alone — progress  at  the  same  time  should  be  made 
in  thought;  for  thought  is  the  material  on  which 
expression  feeds.  Should  sufficient  advance  not 
be  made  in  this  last  direction,  in  a  short  time  the 
man  feels  that  he  has  expressed  himself — that  now 
he  can  only  more  or  less  dexterously  repeat  himself 
— more  or  less  prettily  become  his  own  echo.  It 
is  comparatively  easy  to  acquire  facility  in  writing ; 
but  it  is  an  evil  thing  for  the  man  of  letters  when 
such  facility  is  the  only  thing  he  has  acquired — 
when  it  has  been,  perhaps,  the  only  thing  he  has 
striven  to  acquire.  Such  miscalculation  of  ways 
and  means  suggests  vulgarity  of  aspiration,  and  a 
fatal  material  taint.  In  the  life  in  which  this 
error  has  been  committed  there  can  be  no  proper 
harmony,  no  satisfaction,  no  spontaneous  delight 
in  effort.  The  man  does  not  create — he  is  only 
desperately  keeping  up   appearances.     He  has   at 


144  MEN  OF  LETTERS 

once  become  "a  base  mechanical,"  and  his  suc- 
cesses are  not  much  higher  than  the  successes  of 
the  acrobat  or  the  rope-dancer.  This  want  of 
proper  relationship  between  resources  of  expression 
and  resources  of  thought,  or  subject-matter  for 
expression,  is  common  enough,  and  some  slight 
suspicion  of  it  flashes  across  the  mind  at  times  in 
reading  even  the  best  authors.  It  lies  at  the  bottom 
of  every  catastrophe  in  the  literary  life.  Frequently 
a  man's  first  book  is  good,  and  all  his  after  pro- 
ductions but  faint  and  yet  fainter  reverberations  of 
the  first.  The  men  who  act  thus  are  in  the  long 
run  deserted  like  worked-out  mines.  A  man 
reaches  his  limits  as  to  thought  long  before  he 
reaches  his  limits  as  to  expression ;  and  a  haunting 
suspicion  of  this  is  one  of  the  peculiar  bitters  of 
the  literary  life.  Hazlitt  tells  us  that,  after  one  of 
his  early  interviews  with  Coleridge,  he  sat  down  to 
his  Essay  on  the  Natural  Disinterestedness  of  the 
Human  Mind.  "  I  sat  down  to  the  task  shortly 
afterwards  for  the  twentieth  time,  got  new  pens  and 
paper,  determined  to  make  clean  work  of  it,  wrote 
a  few  sentences  in  the  skeleton  style  of  a  mathema- 
tical demonstration,  stopped  half-way  down  the 
second  page,  and,  after  trying  in  vain  to  pump  up 
any  words,  images,  notions,  apprehensions,  facts,  or 
observations,  from  that  gulf  of  abstraction  in  which 
I  had  plunged  myself  for  four  or  five  years  pre- 
ceding, gave  up  the  attempt  as  labour  in  vain,  and 
shed  tears  of  hopeless  despondency  on  the  blank 
unfinished  paper.  I  can  write  fast  enough  now. 
Am  I  better  than  I  was  then  ?  oh  no  !  One  truth 
discovered,  one  pang  of  regret  at  not  being  able  to 


MEN  OF  LETTERS  145 

express  it,  is  worth  all  the  fluency  and  flippancy  in 
the  world."  This  regretful  looking  back  to  the 
past,  when  emotions  were  keen  and  sharp,  and 
when  thought  wore  the  novel  dress  of  a  stranger, 
and  this  dissatisfaction  with  the  acquirements  of  the 
present,  is  common  enough  with  the  man  of  letters. 
The  years  have  come  and  gone,  and  he  is  conscious 
that  he  is  not  intrinsically  richer — he  has  only 
learned  to  assort  and  display  his  riches  to  advan- 
tage. His  wares  have  neither  increased  in  quantity 
nor  improved  in  quality — he  has  only  procured  a 
window  in  a  leading  thoroughfare.  He  can  catch 
his  butterflies  more  cunningly,  he  can  pin  them  on 
his  cards  more  skilfully,  but  their  wings  are  fingered 
and  tawdry  compared  with  the  time  when  they 
winnowed  before  him  in  the  sunshine  over  the 
meadows  of  youth.  This  species  of  regret  is  pecu- 
liar to  the  class  of  which  I  am  speaking,  and  they 
often  discern  failure  in  what  the  world  counts 
success. 

The  veteran  does  not  look  back  to  the  time 
when  he  was  in  the  awkward  squad ;  the  account- 
ant does  not  sigh  over  the  time  when  he  was 
bewildered  by  the  mysteries  of  double-entry.  And 
the  reason  is  obvious.  The  dexterity  which  time 
and  practice  have  brought  to  the  soldier  and 
the  accountant  is  pure  gain :  the  dexterity  of  ex- 
pression which  time  and  practice  have  brought  to 
the  writer  is  gain  too,  in  its  way,  but  not  quite  so 
pure.  It  may  have  been  cultivated  and  brought  to 
its  degree  of  excellence  at  the  expense  of  higher 
things.  The  man  of  letters  lives  by  thought  and 
expression,  and  his  two  powers  may  not  be  perfectly 
10 


146  MEN  OF  LETTERS 

balanced.  And,  putting  aside  its  effect  on  the 
reader,  and  through  that,  on  the  writer's  pecuniary 
prosperity,  the  tragedy  of  want  of  equipoise  lies  in 
this.  When  the  writer  expresses  his  thought,  it  is 
immediately  dead  to  him,  however  life-giving  it 
may  be  to  others ;  he  pauses  midway  in  his  career, 
he  looks  back  over  his  uttered  past — brown  desert 
to  him,  in  which  there  is  no  sustenance — he  looks 
forward  to  the  green  ««uttered  future,  and  beholding 
its  narrow  limits,  knows  it  is  all  that  he  can  call  his 
own — on  that  vivid  strip  he  must  pasture  his  intel- 
lectual life. 

Is  the  literary  life,  on  the  whole,  a  happy  one  ? 
Granted  that  the  writer  is  productive,  that  he 
possesses  abundance  of  material,  that  he  has 
secured  the  ear  of  the  world,  one  is  inclined  to 
fancy  that  no  life  could  be  happier.  Such  a  man 
seems  to  live  on  the  finest  of  the  wheat.  If  a  poet, 
he  is  continually  singing;  if  a  novelist,  he  is 
supreme  in  his  ideal  world ;  if  a  humorist,  every- 
thing smiles  back  upon  his  smile ;  if  an  essayist,  he 
is  continually  saying  the  wisest,  most  memorable 
things.  He  breathes  habitually  the  serener  air 
which  ordinary  mortals  can  only  at  intervals  respire, 
and  in  their  happiest  moments.  Such  conceptions 
of  great  writers  are  to  some  extent  erroneous. 
Through  the  medium  of  their  books  we  know 
them  only  in  their  active  mental  states — in  their 
triumphs ;  we  do  not  see  them  when  sluggishness 
has  succeeded  the  effort  which  was  delight.  The 
statue  does  not  come  to  her  white  limbs  all  at 
once.  It  is  the  bronze  wrestler,  not  the  flesh  and 
blood  one,  that  stands  for  ever  over  a  fallen  adver- 


MEN  OF  LETTERS  147 

sary  with  the  pride  of  victory  on  his  face.  Of  the 
labour,  the  weariness,  the  self-distrust,  the  utter 
despondency  of  the  great  writer,  we  know  nothing. 
Then,  for  the  attainment  of  mere  happiness  or 
contentment,  any  high  faculty  of  imagination  is  a 
questionable  help.  Of  course  imagination  lights 
the  torch  of  joy,  it  deepens  the  carmine  on  the 
sleek  cheek  of  the  girl,  it  makes  wine  sparkle, 
makes  music  speak,  gives  rays  to  the  rising  sun. 
But  in  all  its  supreme  sweetnesses  there  is  a  perilous 
admixture  of  deceit,  which  is  suspected  even  at 
the  moment  when  the  senses  tingle  keenliest. 

And  it  must  be  remembered  that  this  potent 
faculty  can  darken  as  well  as  brighten.  It  is  the  very 
soul  of  pain.  While  the  trumpets  are  blowing  in 
Ambition's  ear,  it  whispers  of  the  grave.  It  drapes 
Death  in  austere  solemnities,  and  surrounds  him 
with  a  gloomy  court  of  terrors.  The  life  of  the 
imaginative  man  is  never  a  commonplace  one : 
his  lights  are  brighter,  his  glooms  are  darker,  than 
the  lights  and  glooms  of  the  vulgar.  His  ecstasies 
are  as  restless  as  his  pains.  The  great  writer  has 
this  perilous  faculty  in  excess ;  and  through  it  he 
will,  as  a  matter  of  course,  draw  out  of  the  atmo- 
sphere of  circumstance  surrounding  him  the  keen- 
ness of  pleasure  and  pain.  To  my  own  notion, 
the  best  gifts  of  the  gods  are  neither  the  most 
glittering  nor  the  most  admired.  These  gifts  I 
take  to  be,  a  moderate  ambition,  a  taste  for  repose 
with  circumstances  favourable  thereto,  a  certain 
mildness  of  passion,  an  even-beating  pulse,  an 
even-beating  heart.  I  do  not  consider  heroes  and 
celebrated  persons  the  happiest  of  mankind.     I  do 


148  MEN  OF  LETTERS 

not  envy  Alexander  the  shouting  of  his  armies 
nor  Dante  his  laurel  wreath.  Even  were  I  able,  I 
would  not  purchase  these  at  the  prices  the  poet 
the  and  warrior  paid.  So  far,  then,  as  great  writers 
— ^great  poets,  especially  —  are  of  imagination  all 
compact  —  a  peculiarity  of  mental  constitution 
which  makes  a  man  go  shares  with  every  one  he 
is  brought  into  contact  with ;  which  makes  him 
enter  into  Romeo's  rapture  when  he  touches 
Juliet's  cheek  among  cypresses  silvered  by  the 
Verona  moonlight,  and  the  stupor  of  the  blinded 
and  pinioned  wretch  on  the  scaffold  before  the 
bolt  is  drawn — so  far  as  this  special  gift  goes,  I 
do  not  think  the  great  poet — and  by  virtue  of  it 
he  is  a  poet — is  likely  to  be  happier  than  your 
more  ordinary  mortal.  On  the  whole,  perhaps,  it 
is  the  great  readers  rather  than  the  great  writers 
who  are  entirely  to  be  envied.  They  pluck  the 
fruits,  and  are  spared  the  trouble  of  rearing  them. 
Prometheus  filched  fire  from  heaven,  and  had  for 
reward  the  crag  of  Caucasus,  the  chain,  the  vul- 
ture ;  while  they  for  whom  he  stole  it  cook  their 
suppers  upon  it,  stretch  out  benumbed  hands 
towards  it,  and  see  its  light  reflected  in  their 
children's  faces.  They  are  comfortable :  he, 
roofed  by  the  keen  crystals  of  the  stars,  groans 
above. 

Trifles  make  up  the  happiness  or  the  misery  of 
mortal  life.  The  majority  of  men  slip  into  their 
graves  without  having  encountered  on  their  way 
thither  any  signal  catastrophe  or  exaltation  of 
fortune  or  feeling.  Collect  a  thousand  ignited 
sticks  into  a  heap,  and  you  have  a  bonfire  which 


MEN  OF  LETTERS  149 

may  be  seen  over  three  counties.  If,  during 
thirty  years,  the  annoyances  connected  with  shirt- 
buttons  found  missing  when  you  are  hurriedly 
dressing  for  dinner,  were  gathered  into  a  mass 
and  endured  at  once,  it  would  be  misery  equal  to 
a  public  execution.  If,  from  the  same  space  of 
time,  all  the  little  titillations  of  a  man's  vanity 
were  gathered  into  one  lump  of  honey  and  enjoyed 
at  once,  the  pleasure  of  being  crowned  would 
not  perhaps  be  much  greater.  If  the  equanimity 
of  an  ordinary  man  be  at  the  mercy  of  trifles,  how 
much  more  will  the  equanimity  of  the  man  of 
letters,  who  is  usually  the  most  sensitive  of  the 
race,  and  whose  peculiar  avocation  makes  sad 
work  with  the  fine  tissues  of  the  nerves. 

Literary  composition  is,  I  take  it,  with  the  excep- 
tion of  the  crank,  in  which  there  is  neither  hope 
nor  result,  the  most  exhausting  to  which  a  human 
being  can  apply  himself.  Just  consider  the 
situation.  Here  is  your  man  of  letters,  tender- 
hearted as  Cowper,  who  would  not  count  upon 
his  list  of  friends  the  man  who  tramples  heedlessly 
upon  a  worm ;  as  light  of  sleep  and  abhorrent  of 
noise  as  Beattie,  who  denounces  chanticleer  for 
his  lusty  proclamation  of  morning  to  his  own  and 
the  neighbouring  farmyards  in  terms  that  would 
be  unmeasured  if  applied  to  Nero ;  as  alive  to 
blame  as  Byron,  who  declared  that  the  praise  of 
the  greatest  of  the  race  could  not  take  the  sting 
from  the  censure  of  the  meanest.  Fancy  the 
sufferings  of  a  creature  so  built  and  strung  in  a 
world  which  creaks  so  vilely  on  its  hinges  as  this  ! 
Will  such  a  man  confront  a  dun  with  an  imperturb- 


150  MEN  OF  LETTERS 

able  countenance?  Will  he  throw  himself  back 
in  his  chair  and  smile  blandly  when  his  chamber 
is  lanced  through  and  through  by  the  notes  of  a 
street  bagpiper  ?  When  his  harassed  brain  should 
be  solaced  by  music,  will  he  listen  patiently  to 
stupid  remarks  ?  I  fear  not.  The  man  of  letters 
suffers  keenlier  than  people  suspect  from  sharp, 
cruel  noises,  from  witless  observations,  from  social 
misconceptions  of  him  of  every  kind,  from  hard 
utilitarian  wisdom,  and  from  his  own  good  things 
going  to  the  grave  unrecognised  and  unhonoured. 
And,  forced  to  live  by  his  pen,  to  extract  from 
his  brain  bread  and  beer,  clothing,  lodging,  and 
income-tax,  I  am  not  surprised  that  he  is  often- 
times nervous,  querulous,  impatient.  Thinking 
of  these  things,  I  do  not  wonder  at  Hazlitt's 
spleen,  at  Charles  Lamb's  punch,  at  Coleridge's 
opium. 

I  think  of  the  days  spent  in  writing,  and  of 
the  nights  which  repeat  the  day  in  dream,  and 
in  which  there  is  no  refreshment.  I  think  of 
the  brain  which  must  be  worked  out  at  length : 
of  Scott,  when  the  wand  of  the  enchanter  was 
broken,  writing  poor  romances ;  of  Southey  sitting 
vacantly  in  his  library,  and  drawing  a  feeble 
satisfaction  from  the  faces  of  his  books.  And 
for  the  man  of  letters  there  is  more  than  the  mere 
labour:  he  writes  his  book,  and  has  frequently 
the  mortification  of  seeing  it  neglected  or  torn  to 
pieces.  Above  all  men,  he  longs  for  sympathy, 
recognition,  applause.  He  respects  his  fellow- 
creature,  because  he  beholds  in  him  a  possible 
reader.     To  write  a  book,  to  send  it  forth  to  the 


MEN  OF  LETTERS  151 

world  and  the  critics,  is  to  a  sensitive  person  like 
plunging  mother-naked  into  tropic  waters  where 
sharks  abound.  It  is  true  that,  like  death,  the 
terror  of  criticism  lives  most  in  apprehension ; 
still,  to  have  been  frequently  criticised,  and  to  be 
constantly  liable  to  it,  are  disagreeable  items  in 
a  man's  life.  Most  men  endure  criticism  with 
commendable  fortitude,  just  as  most  criminals 
when  under  the  drop  conduct  themselves  with 
calmness.  They  bleed,  but  they  bleed  inwardly. 
To  be  flayed  in  the  Saturday  Review,  for  in- 
stance— a  whole  amused  public  looking  on — 
is  far  from  pleasant;  and,  after  the  operation, 
the  ordinary  annoyances  of  life  probably  magnify 
themselves  into  tortures.  The  grasshopper  be- 
comes a  burden.  Touch  a  flayed  man  ever  so 
lightly,  and  with  ever  so  kindly  an  intention,  and 
he  is  sure  to  wince.  The  skin  of  the  man  of 
letters  is  peculiarly  sensitive  to  the  bite  of  the 
critical  mosquito ;  and  he  lives  in  a  climate  in  which 
such  mosquitoes  swarm.  He  is  seldom  stabbed 
to  the  heart — he  is  often  killed  by  pin-pricks. 

But  to  leave  palisade  and  outwork,  and  come 
to  the  interior  of  the  citadel,  it  may  be  said  that 
great  writers,  although  they  must  ever  remain 
shining  objects  of  regard  to  us,  are  not  exempted 
from  ordinary  limitations  and  conditions.  They 
are  cabined,  cribbed,  confined,  even  as  their 
more  prosaic  brethren.  It  is  in  the  nature  of 
every  man  to  be  endued  with  that  he  works  in. 
Thus,  in  course  of  time,  the  merchant  becomes 
bound  up  in  his  ventures  and  his  ledger;  an 
indefinable  flavour  of  the   pharmacopoeia  lingers 


152  MEN  OF  LETTERS 

about  the  physician ;  the  bombazin  and  horse-hair 
of  the  lawyer  eat  into  his  soul — his  experiences 
are  docqueted  in  a  clerkly  hand,  bound  together 
with  red  tape,  and  put  away  in  professional  pigeon- 
holes. A  man  naturally  becomes  leavened  by  the 
profession  which  he  has  adopted.  He  thinks, 
speaks,  and  dreams  "shop,"  as  the  colloquial 
phrase  has  it.  Men  of  letters  are  affected  by 
their  profession  just  as  merchants,  physicians,  and 
lawyers  are.  In  course  of  time  the  inner  man 
becomes  stained  with  ink,  like  blotting-paper. 
The  agriculturist  talks  constantly  of  bullocks — the 
man  of  letters  constantly  of  books.  The  printing- 
press  seems  constantly  in  his  immediate  neighbour- 
hood. He  is  stretched  on  the  rack  of  an  unfavour- 
able review — he  is  lapped  in  the  Elysium  of  a 
new  edition.  The  narrowing  effect  of  a  profession 
is  in  every  man  a  defect,  albeit  an  inevitable  one. 
Byron,  who  had  a  larger  amount  of  common  sense 
that  any  poet  of  his  day,  tells  us,  in  "  Beppo," 

"  One  hates  an  author  that's  all  author',  fellows 
In  foolscap  uniforms  tum'd  up  with  ink." 

And  his  lordship's  "  hate "  in  the  matter  is  under- 
standable enough.  In  his  own  day,  Scott  and 
himself  were  almost  the  only  distinguished  authors 
who  were  not  "all  authors,"  just  as  Mr.  Helps 
and  Sir  Edward  Bulwer  Lytton  are  almost  the 
only  representatives  of  the  class  in  ours.  This 
professional  taint  not  only  resides  in  the  writer, 
impairing  his  fulness  and  completion;  it  flows 
out  of  him  into  his  work,  and  impairs  it  also. 
It  is  the  professional   character  which  authorship 


MEN  OF  LETTERS  153 

has  assumed  which  has  taken  individuality  and 
personal  flavour  from  so  much  of  our  writing, 
and  prevented  to  a  large  extent  the  production  of 
enduring  books.  Our  writing  is  done  too  hurriedly, 
and  to  serve  a  purpose  too  immediate.  Literature 
is  not  so  much  an  art  as  a  manufacture.  There 
is  a  demand,  and  too  many  crops  are  taken  off 
the  soil;  it  is  never  allowed  to  lie  fallow,  and  to 
nourish  itself  in  peacefulness  and  silence.  When 
so  many  cups  are  to  be  filled,  too  much  water 
is  certain  to  be  put  into  the  teapot.  Letters 
have  become  a  profession,  and  probably  of  all 
professions  it  is,  in  the  long  run,  the  least 
conducive  to  personal  happiness.  It  is  the 
most  precarious.  In  it,  above  all  others,  to  be 
weak  is  to  be  miserable.  It  is  the  least 
mechanical,  consequently  the  most  exhausting; 
and  in  its  higher  walks  it  deals  with  a  man's 
most  vital  material — utilises  his  emotions,  trades 
on  his  faculties  of  love  and  imagination,  uses 
for  its  own  purposes  the  human  heart  by  which 
he  lives.  These  things  a  man  requires  for 
himself;  and  when  they  are  in  a  large  proportion 
transported  to  an  ideal  world,  they  make  the 
ideal  world  all  the  more  brilliant  and  furnished, 
and  leave  his  ordinary  existence  all  the  more 
arid  and  commonplace.  You  cannot  spend  money 
and  have  it ;  you  cannot  use  emotion  and 
possess  it. 

The  poet  who  sings  loudly  of  love  and  love's 
delights,  may  in  the  ordinary  intercourse  of  life 
be  all  the  colder  for  his  singing.  The  man  who 
has   been  moved  while  describing  an   imaginary 


154  MEN  OF  LETTERS 

death-bed  to-day,  is  all  the  more  likely  to  be 
unmoved  while  standing  by  his  friend's  grave 
to-morrow.  Shakspeare,  after  emerging  from  the 
moonlight  in  the  Verona  orchard,  and  Romeo 
and  Juliet's  silvery  interchange  of  vows,  was, 
I  fear  me,  not  marvellously  enamoured  of  the 
autumn  on  Ann  Hathaway's  cheek.  It  is  in 
some  such  way  as  this  that  a  man's  books 
may  impoverish  his  life;  that  the  fire  and 
heat  of  his  genius  may  make  his  hearth  all 
the  colder.  From  considerations  like  these, 
one  can  explain  satisfactorily  enough  to  one's 
self  the  domestic  misadventures  of  men  of 
letters  —  of  poets  especially.  We  know  the 
poets  only  in  their  books;  their  wives  know 
them  out  of  them.  Their  wives  see  the  other 
side  of  the  moon;  and  we  have  been  made 
pretty  well  aware  how  they  have  appreciated 
that. 

The  man  engaged  in  the  writing  of  books  is 
tempted  to  make  such  writing  the  be-all  and 
end-all  of  his  existence — to  grow  his  literature 
out  of  his  history,  experience,  or  observation,  as 
the  gardener  grows  out  of  soils  brought  from  a 
distance  the  plants  which  he  intends  to  exhibit. 
The  cup  of  life  foams  fiercely  over  into  first 
books ;  materials  for  the  second,  third,  and  fourth 
must  be  carefully  sought  for.  The  man  of  letters, 
as  time  passes  on,  and  the  professional  impulse 
works  deeper,  ceases  to  regard  the  world  with  a 
single  eye.  The  man  slowly  merges  into  the 
artist.  He  values  new  emotions  and  experiences, 
because  he  can  turn  these  into  artistic  shapes. 


MEN  OF  LETTERS  155 

He  plucks  "copy"  from  rising  and  setting  suns. 
He  sees  marketable  pathos  in  his  friend's  death- 
bed. He  carries  the  peal  of  his  daughter's 
marriage  bells  into  his  sentences  or  his  rhymes ; 
and  in  these  the  music  sounds  sweeter  to  him 
than  in  the  sunshine  and  the  wind.  If  originally 
of  a  meditative,  introspective  mood,  his  profession 
can  hardly  fail  to  confirm  and  deepen  his  peculiar 
temperament.  He  begins  to  feel  his  own  pulse 
curiously,  and  for  a  purpose.  As  a  spy  in  the 
service  of  literature,  he  lives  in  the  world  and  its 
concerns.  Out  of  everything  he  seeks  thoughts 
and  images,  as  out  of  everything  the  bee  seeks 
wax  and  honey,  A  curious  instance  of  this  mode 
of  looking  at  things  occurs  in  Goethe's  "Letters 
from  Italy,"  with  whom,  indeed,  it  was  a  fashion, 
and  who  helped  himself  out  of  the  teeming  world 
to  more  effect  than  any  man  of  his  time  : 

"From  Botzen  to  Trent  the  stage  is  nine 
leagues,  and  runs  through  a  valley  which  con- 
stantly increases  in  fertility.  All  that  merely 
struggles  into  vegetation  on  the  higher  mountains 
has  here  more  strength  and  vitality.  The  sun 
shines  with  warmth,  and  there  is  once  more  belief 
in  a  Deity. 

"A  poor  woman  cried  out  to  me  to  take  her 
child  into  my  vehicle,  as  the  soil  was  burning  its 
feet.  I  did  her  this  service  out  of  honour  to  the 
strong  light  of  Heaven.  The  child  was  strangely 
decked  out,  but  I  could  get  nothing  from  it  in  any 
way." 

It  is  clear  that  out  of  all  this  the  reader  gains ; 
but  I  cannot  help  thinking  that  for  the  writer  it 


156  MEN  OF  LETTERS 

tends  to  destroy  entire  and  simple  living — all 
hearty  and  final  enjoyment  in  life.  Joy  and 
sorrow,  death  and  marriage,  the  comic  circum- 
stance and  the  tragic,  what  befalls  him,  what  he 
observes,  what  he  is  brought  into  contact  with, 
do  not  affect  him  as  they  affect  other  men ;  they 
are  secrets  to  be  rifled,  stones  to  be  built  with, 
clays  to  be  moulded  into  artistic  shape.  In 
giving  emotional  material  artistic  form,  there  is 
indisputably  a  certain  noble  pleasure ;  but  it  is 
of  a  solitary  and  severe  complexion,  and  takes 
a  man  out  of  the  circle  and  sympathies  of  his 
fellows. 

I  do  not  say  that  this  kind  of  life  makes  a  man 
selfish,  but  it  often  makes  him  seem  so ;  and  the 
results  of  this  seeming,  on  friendship  and  the 
domestic  relationships,  for  instance,  are  as  bale- 
ful as  if  selfishness  really  existed.  The  peculiar 
temptation  which  besets  men  of  letters,  the  curious 
playing  with  thought  and  emotion,  the  tendency 
to  analyse  and  take  everything  to  pieces,  has  two 
results,  and  neither  aids  his  happiness  nor  even 
his  literary  success.  On  the  one  hand,  and  in 
relation  to  the  social  relations,  it  gives  him  some- 
what of  an  icy  aspect,  and  so  breaks  the  spring 
and  eagerness  of  affectionate  response.  For  the 
best  affection  is  shy,  reticent,  undemonstrative, 
and  needs  to  be  drawn  out  by  its  like.  If  un- 
recognised, like  an  acquaintance  on  the  street, 
it  passes  by,  making  no  sign,  and  is  for  the  time 
being  a  stranger.  On  the  other  hand,  the  desire 
to  say  a  fine  thing  about  a  phenomenon,  whether 
jiatural  or  moral,  prevents  a  man  from  reaching 


MEN  OF  LETTERS  157 

the  inmost  core  of  the  phenomenon.  Entrance 
into  these  matters  will  never  be  obtained  by  the 
most  sedulous  seeking.  The  man  who  has  found 
an  entrance  cannot  tell  how  he  came  there,  and 
he  will  never  find  his  way  back  again  by  the  same 
road.  From  this  law  arises  all  the  dreary  conceits 
and  artifices  of  the  poets;  it  is  through  the 
operation  of  the  same  law  that  many  of  our 
simple  songs  and  ballads  are  inexpressibly 
affecting,  because  in  them  there  is  no  conscious- 
ness of  authorship ;  emotion  and  utterance  are 
twin-born,  consentaneous — like  sorrow  and  tears, 
a  blow  and  its  pain,  a  kiss  and  its  thrill.  When 
a  man  is  happy,  every  effort  to  express  his  happi- 
ness mars  its  completeness.  I  am  not  happy  at 
all  unless  I  am  happier  than  I  know.  When  the 
tide  is  full  there  is  silence  in  channel  and  creek. 
The  silence  of  the  lover  when  he  clasps  the  maid 
is  better  than  the  passionate  murmur  of  the  song 
which  celebrates  her  charms.  If  to  be  near  the 
rose  makes  the  nightingale  tipsy  with  delight,  what 
must  it  be  to  be  the  rose  herself?  One  feeling  of 
the  "  wild  joys  of  living — the  leaping  from  rock  to 
rock,"  is  better  than  the  "muscular-Christianity" 
literature  which  our  time  has  produced.  I  am 
afraid  that  the  profession  of  letters  interferes  with 
the  elemental  feelings  of  life;  and  I  am  afraid, 
too,  that  in  the  majority  of  cases  this  interference 
is  not  justified  by  its  results.  The  entireness  and 
simplicity  of  life  is  flawed  by  the  intrusion  of  an 
inquisitive  element,  and  this  inquisitive  element 
never  yet  found  anything  which  was  much  worth 
the  finding.     Men  live  by  the  primal  energies  of 


158  MEN  OF  LETTERS 

love,  faith,  imagination ;  and  happily  it  is  not 
given  to  every  one  to  live,  in  the  pecuniary  sense, 
by  the  artistic  utilisation  and  sale  of  these.  You 
cannot  make  ideas;  they  must  come  unsought  if 
they  come  at  all. 

"From  pastoral  graves  extracting  thoughts  divine" 

is  a  profitable  occupation  enough,  if  you  stumble 
on  the  little  churchyard  covered  over  with  silence, 
and  folded  among  the  hills.  If  you  go  to  the 
churchyard  with  intent  to  procure  thoughts,  as 
you  go  into  the  woods  to  gather  anemones,  you 
are  wasting  your  time.  Thoughts  must  come 
naturally,  like  wild  flowers;  they  cannot  be 
forced  in  a  hotbed — even  although  aided  by 
the  leaf-mould  of  your  past — like  exotics.  And 
it  is  the  misfortune  of  men  of  letters  of  our  day 
that  they  cannot  afford  to  wait  for  this  natural 
flowering  of  thought,  but  are  driven  to  the 
forcing  process,  with  the  results  which  were  to 
be  expected. 


ON  THE  IMPORTANCE  OF  A 
MAN  TO  HIMSELF. 

THE  present  writer  remembers  to  have  been 
visited  once  by  a  strange  feeling  of  puzzle- 
ment; and  the  puzzled  feeling  arose  out  of  the 
following  circumstance :  He  was  seated  in  a 
railway  carriage,  five  minutes  or  so  before  starting, 
and  had  time  to  contemplate  certain  waggons  or 
trucks  filled  with  cattle,  drawn  up  on  a  parallel 
line,  and  quite  close  to  the  window  at  which  he 
sat.  The  cattle  wore  a  much-enduring  aspect; 
and  as  he  looked  into  their  large,  patient,  melan- 
choly eyes — for,  as  before  mentioned,  there  was 
no  space  to  speak  of  intervening — the  feeling  of 
puzzlement  alluded  to  arose  in  his  mind.  And 
it  consisted  in  an  attempt  to  solve  the  existence 
before  him,  to  enter  into  it,  to  understand  it,  and 
his  inability  to  accomplish  it,  or  indeed  to  make 
any  way  toward  the  accomplishment  of  it.  The 
much-enduring  animals  in  the  trucks  opposite  had 
unquestionably  some  rude  twilight  of  a  notion  of  a 
world ;  of  objects  they  had  some  unknown  cogniz- 
ance ;  but  he  could  not  get  behind  the  melancholy 
eye  within  a  yard  of  him,  and  look  through  it. 


i6o  ON  THE  IMPORTANCE 

How,  from  that  window,  the  world  shaped  itself, 
he  could  not  discover,  could  not  even  fancy ;  and 
yet,  staring  on  the  animals,  he  was  conscious  of  a 
certain  fascination  in  which  there  lurked  an 
element  of  terror.  These  wild,  unkempt  brutes, 
with  slavering  muzzles,  penned  together,  lived, 
could  choose  between  this  thing  and  the  other, 
could  be  frightened,  could  be  enraged,  could  even 
love  and  hate;  and,  gazing  into  a  placid,  heavy 
countenance,  and  the  depths  of  a  patient  eye,  not 
a  yard  away,  he  was  conscious  of  an  obscure  and 
shuddering  recognition,  of  a  life  akin  so  far  with 
his  own.  But  to  enter  into  that  life  imaginatively, 
and  to  conceive  it,  he  found  impossible.  Eye 
looked  upon  eye,  but  the  one  could  not  flash 
recognition  on  the  other;  and,  thinking  of  this, 
he  remembers,  with  what  a  sense  of  ludicrous 
horror,  the  idea  came — what,  if  looking  on  one 
another  thus,  some  spark  of  recognition  could  be 
elicited;  if  some  rudiment  of  thought  could  be 
detected :  if  there  were  indeed  a  point  at  which 
man  and  ox  could  meet  and  compare  notes? 
Suppose  some  gleam  or  scintillation  of  humour 
had  lighted  up  the  unwinking,  amber  eye  ? 
Heavens,  the  bellow  of  the  weaning  calf  would  be 
pathetic,  shoe-leather  would  be  forsworn,  the 
eating  of  roast  meat,  hot  or  cold,  would  be 
cannibalism,  the  terrified  world  would  make  a 
sudden  dash  into  vegetarianism  !  Happily,  before 
fancy  had  time  to  play  another  vagary,  with  a 
snort  and  a  pull  the  train  moved  on,  and  my 
truckful  of  horned  friends  were  left  gazing  into 
empty  space,  with  the  same  wistful,  patient,  and 


OF  A  MAN  TO  HIMSELF  i6i 

melancholy  expression  with  which,  for  the  space 
of  five  minutes  or  so,  they  had  surveyed  and 
bewildered  me. 

A  similar  feeling  of  puzzlement  to  that  which  I 
have  indicated,  besets  one  not  unfrequently  in  the 
contemplation  of  men  and  women.  You  are 
brought  in  contact  with  a  person,  you  attempt 
to  comprehend  him,  to  enter  into  him,  in  a  word 
to  be  him,  and  if  you  are  not  utterly  foiled  in  the 
attempt,  you  cannot  flatter  yourself  that  you  have 
been  successful  to  the  measure  of  your  desire.  A 
person  interests,  or  piques,  or  tantalises  you,  you 
do  your  best  to  make  him  out,  yet  strive  as  you 
will,  you  cannot  read  the  riddle  of  his  personality. 
From  the  invulnerable  fortress  of  his  own  nature 
he  smiles  contemptuously  on  the  beleaguering 
armies  of  your  curiosity  and  analysis. 

And  it  is  not  only  the  stranger  that  thus  defeats 
you  ;  it  may  be  the  brother  brought  up  by  the  same 
fireside  with  you,  the  best  friend  whom  you  have 
known  from  early  school  and  college  days,  the 
very  child,  perhaps,  that  bears  your  name,  and 
with  whose  moral  and  mental  apparatus  you 
think  you  are  as  familiar  as  with  your  own.  In 
the  midst  of  the  most  amicable  relationships  and 
the  best  understandings,  human  beings  are,  at 
times,  conscious  of  a  cold  feeling  of  strangeness — 
the  friend  is  actuated  by  a  feeling  which  never 
could  actuate  you,  some  hitherto  unknown  part 
of  his  character  becomes  visible,  and  while  at 
one  moment  you  stood  in  such  close  neighbour- 
hood that  you  could  feel  his  arm  touch  your  own, 
in  the  next  there  is  a  feeling  of  removal,  of  distance, 
II 


i62  ON  THE  IMPORTANCE 

of  empty  space  betwixt  him  and  you  in  which  the 
wind  is  blowing.  You  and  he  become  separate 
entities.  He  is  related  to  you  as  Border  peel  is 
related  to  Border  peel  on  Tweeds  ide,  or  as  ship 
is  related  to  ship  on  the  sea.  It  is  not  meant 
that  any  quarrel  or  direct  misunderstanding  should 
have  taken  place,  simply  that  feeling  of  foreignness 
is  meant  to  be  indicated  which  occurs  now  and 
then  in  the  intercourse  of  the  most  affectionate ; 
which  comes  as  a  harsh  reminder  to  friends  and 
lovers  that  with  whatsoever  flowery  bands  they 
may  be  linked,  they  are  separated  persons,  who 
understand,  and  can  only  understand,  each  other 
partially.  It  is  annoying  to  be  put  out  in  our 
notions  of  men  and  women  thus,  and  to  be  forced 
to  rearrange  them.  It  is  a  misfortune  to  have  to 
manoeuvre  one's  heart  as  a  general  has  to 
manoeuvre  his  army.  The  globe  has  been 
circumnavigated,  but  no  man  ever  yet  has;  you 
may  survey  a  kingdom  and  note  the  result  in 
maps,  but  all  the  savants  in  the  world  could  not 
produce  a  reliable  map  of  the  poorest  human 
personality.  And  the  worst  of  all  this  is,  that 
love  and  friendship  may  be  the  outcome  of  a 
certain  condition  of  knowledge ;  increase  the 
knowledge,  and  love  and  friendship  beat  their 
wings  and  go.  Every  man's  road  in  life  is  marked 
by  the  graves  of  his  personal  likings.  Intimacy  is 
frequently  the  road  to  indifference,  and  marriage, 
a  parricide.  From  these  accidents  to  the  affec- 
tions, and  from  the  efforts  to  repair  them,  life  has 
in  many  a  patched  and  tinkered  look. 

Love    and    friendship    are    the   discoveries  of 


OF  A  MAN  TO  HIMSELF  163 

ourselves  in  others,  and  our  delight  in  the  recogni- 
tion ;  and  in  men,  as  in  books,  we  only  know 
that,  the  parallel  of  which  we  have  in  ourselves. 
We  know  only  that  portion  of  the  world  which  we 
have  travelled  over;  and  we  are  never  a  whit 
wiser  than  our  own  experiences.  Imagination, 
the  falcon,  sits  on  the  wrist  of  Experience,  the 
falconer ;  she  can  never  soar  beyond  the  reach  of 
his  whistle,  and  when  tired  she  must  return  to  her 
perch.  Our  knowledge  is  limited  by  ourselves, 
and  so  also  are  our  imaginations.  And  so  it 
comes  about,  that  a  man  measures  everything  by 
his  own  footrule;  that  if  he  is  ignoble,  all  the 
ignobleness  that  is  in  the  world  looks  out  upon 
him,  and  claims  kindred  with  him ;  if  noble,  all 
the  nobleness  in  the  world  does  the  like.  Shak- 
speare  is  always  the  same  height  with  his  reader  ; 
and  when  a  thousand  Christians  subscribe  to  one 
Confession  of  Faith,  hardly  to  two  of  them  does- 
it  mean  the  same  thing.  The  world  is  a  great 
warehouse  of  raiment,  to  which  every  one  has 
access  and  is  allowed  free  use;  and  the  remark- 
able thing  is,  what  coarse  stuffs  are  often  chosen, 
and  how  scantily  some  people  are  attired. 

We  never  get  quit  of  ourselves.  While  I  am 
writing,  the  spring  is  outside,  and  this  season  of 
the  year  touches  my  spirit  always  with  a  sense 
of  newness,  of  strangeness,  of  resurrection.  It 
shoots  boyhood  again  into  the  blood  of  middle 
age.  That  tender  greening  of  the  black  bough 
and  the  red  field — that  coming  again  of  the  new- 
old  flowers — that  re-birth  of  love  in  all  the  family 
of  birds,  with  cooings,  and  caressings,  and  building 


f64  ON  THE  IMPORTANCE 

of  nests  in  wood  and  brake — that  strange  glory  of 
sunshine  in  the  air — that  stirring  of  life  in  the 
green  mould,  making  even  churchyards  beautiful, 
— seems  like  the  creation  of  a  new  world.  And 
yet — and  yet,  even  with  the  lamb  in  the  sunny 
field,  the  lark  mile-high  in  the  blue.  Spring  has 
her  melancholy  side,  and  bears  a  sadder  burden 
to  the  heart  than  Autumn,  preaching  of  decay 
with  all  his  painted  woods.  For  the  flowers  that 
make  sweet  the  moist  places  in  the  forest  are  not 
the  same  that  bloomed  the  year  before.  Another 
lark  sings  above  the  furrowed  field.  Nature  rolls 
on  in  her  eternal  course,  repeating  her  tale  of 
spring,  summer,  autumn,  winter;  but  life  in  man 
and  beast  is  transitory,  and  other  living  creatures 
take  their  places.  It  is  quite  certain  that  one  or 
other  of  the  next  twenty  springs  will  come  unseen 
by  me,  will  awake  no  throb  of  transport  in  my 
veins.  But  will  it  be  less  bright  on  that  account  ? 
Will  the  lamb  be  saddened  in  the  field  ?  Will  the 
dark  be  less  happy  in  the  air?  The  sunshine  will 
draw  the  daisy  from  the  mound  under  which  I 
sleep,  as  carelessly  as  she  draws  the  cowslip  from 
the  meadow  by  the  riverside.  The  seasons  have 
«o  ruth,  no  compunction.  They  care  not  for  our 
•petty  lives.  The  light  falls  sweetly  on  graveyards, 
and  on  brown  labourers  among  the  hay-swathes. 
Were  the  world  depopulated  to-morrow,  next  spring 
would  break  pitilessly  bright,  flowers  would  bloom, 
•fruit-tree  boughs  wear  pink  and  white ;  and  although 
there  would  be  no  eye  to  witness.  Summer  would 
not  adorn  herself  with  one  blossom  the  less.  It 
is  curious  to  think  how  important  a  creature  a  man 


OF  A  MAN  TO  HIMSELF  165 

is  to  himself.  We  cannot  help  thinking  that  all 
things  exist  for  our  particular  selves.  The  sun, 
in  whose  light  a  system  lives,  warms  me;  makes 
the  trees  grow  for  me ;  paints  the  evening  sky  in 
gorgeous  colours  for  me.  The  mould  I  till,  pro- 
duced from  the  beds  of  extinct  oceans  and  the 
grating  of  rock  and  mountain  during  countless 
centuries,  exists  that  I  may  have  muffins  to  break- 
fast. Animal  life,  with  its  strange  instincts  and 
affections,  is  to  be  recognised  and  cherished — 
for  does  it  not  draw  my  burdens  for  me,  and 
carry  me  from  place  to  place,  and  yield  me 
comfortable  broadcloth,  and  succulent  joints  to 
dinner?  I  think  it  matter  of  complaint  that 
Nature,  like  a  personal  friend  to  whom  I  have 
done  kind  services,  will  not  wear  crape  at  my 
funeral.  I  think  it  cruel  that  the  sun  should 
shine,  and  birds  sing,  and  I  lying  in  my  grave. 
People  talk  of  the  age  of  the  world !  So  far  as 
I  am  concerned,  it  began  with  my  consciousness, 
and  will  end  with  my  decease. 

And  yet,  this  self-consciousness,  which  so  con- 
tinually besets  us,  is  in  itself  a  misery  and  a 
galling  chain.  We  are  never  happy  till  by  im- 
agination we  are  taken  out  of  the  pales  and  limits 
of  self.  We  receive  happiness  at  second  hand : 
the  spring  of  it  may  be  in  ourselves,  but  we  do 
not  know  it  to  be  happiness,  till,  like  the  sun's 
light  from  the  moon,  it  is  reflected  on  us  from 
an  object  outside.  The  admixture  of  a  foreign 
element  sweetens  and  unfamiliarises  it.  Sheridan 
prepared  his  good  things  in  solitude,  but  he  tasted 
for  the  first  time  his  jest's  prosperity  when  it  came 


i66  ON  THE  IMPORTANCE 

back  to  him  in  illumined  faces  and  a  roar  of 
applause.  Your  oldest  story  becomes  new  when 
you  have  a  new  auditor.  A  young  man  is  truth- 
loving  and  amiable :  but  it  is  only  when  these 
fair  qualities  shine  upon  him  from  a  girl's  face 
that  he  is  smitten  by  transport — only  then  is  he 
truly  happy.  In  that  junction  of  hearts,  in  that 
ecstasy  of  mutual  admiration  and  delight,  the 
iinest  epithalamium  ever  writ  by  poet  is  hardly 
worthy  of  the  occasion.  The  countryman  pur- 
chases oranges  at  a  fair  for  his  little  ones;  and 
when  he  brings  them  home  in  the  evening,  and 
watches  his  chubby  urchins,  sitting  up  among 
the  bedclothes,  peel  and  devour  the  fruit,  he 
is  for  the  time  being  richer  than  if  he  drew  the 
rental  of  the  orange-groves  of  Seville.  To  eat 
an  orange  himself  is  nothing;  to  see  them  eat 
it  is  a  pleasure  worth  the  price  of  the  fruit  a 
thousand  times  over.  There  is  no  happiness  in 
the  world  in  which  love  does  not  enter;  and 
love  is  but  the  discovery  of  ourselves  in  others, 
and  the  delight  in  the  recognition.  Apart  from 
others,  no  man  can  make  his  happiness ;  just 
as,  apart  from  a  mirror  of  one  kind  or  another, 
no  man  can  become  acquainted  with  his  own 
lineaments. 

The  accomplishment  of  a  man  is  the  light  by 
which  we  are  enabled  to  discover  the  limits  of 
his  personality.  Every  man  brings  into  the  world 
"with  him  a  certain  amount  of  pith  and  force,  and 
to  that  pith  or  force  his  amount  of  accomplishment 
is  exactly  proportioned.  It  is  in  this  way  that 
«very  spoken  word,  every  action  of  a  man,  becomes 


OF  A  MAN  TO  HIMSELF  167 

biographical.  Everything  a  man  says  or  does  is 
in  consistency  with  himself;  and  it  is  by  looking 
back  on  his  sayings  and  doings  that  we  arrive  at 
the  truth  concerning  him.  A  man  is  one;  and 
every  outcome  of  him  has  a  family  resemblance. 
Goldsmith  did  not  "write  like  an  angel  and  talk 
like  poor  Poll,"  as  we  may  in  part  discern  from 
Boswell's  "Johnson,"  Strange,  indeed,  if  a  man 
talked  continually  the  sheerest  nonsense,  and  wrote 
continually  the  gracefuUest  humours ;  if  a  man  was 
lame  on  the  street,  and  the  finest  dancer  in  the 
ballroom. 

To  describe  a  character  by  antithesis  is  like 
painting  a  portrait  in  black  and  white — all  the 
curious  intermixtures  and  gradations  of  colour 
are  lost.  The  accomplishment  of  a  human  being 
is  measured  by  his  strength,  or  by  his  nice  tact 
in  using  his  strength.  The  distance  to  which 
your  gun,  whether  rifled  or  smooth-bored,  will 
carry  its  shot,  depends  upon  the  force  of  its 
charge.  A  runner's  speed  and  endurance  de- 
pends upon  his  depth  of  chest  and  elasticity  of 
limb.  If  a  poet's  lines  lack  harmony,  it  instructs 
us  that  there  is  a  certain  lack  of  harmony  in  him- 
self. We  see  why  Haydon  failed  as  an  artist 
when  we  read  his  life.  No  one  can  dip  into 
the  "Excursion"  without  discovering  that 
Wordsworth  was  devoid  of  humour,  and  that 
he  cared  more  for  the  narrow  Cumberland  vale 
than  he  did  for  the  big  world.  The  flavour  of 
opium  can  be  detected  in  the  "  Ancient  Mariner  " 
and  "Christabel."  A  man's  word  or  deed  takes 
us  back  to  himself,  as  the  sunbeam  takes  us  back 


i68  ON  THE  IMPORTANCE 

to  the  sun.  It  is  the  sternest  philosophy,  but  on 
the  whole  the  truest,  that,  in  the  wide  arena  of 
the  world,  failure  and  success  are  not  accidents, 
as  we  so  frequently  suppose,  but  the  strictest 
justice.  If  you  do  your  fair  day's  work,  you  are 
certain  to  get  your  fair  day's  wage — in  praise  or 
pudding,  which  ever  happens  to  suit  your  taste. 
You  may  have  seen  at  country  fairs  a  machine 
by  which  the  rustics  test  their  strength  of  arm. 
A  country  fellow  strikes  vigorously  a  buffer,  which 
recoils,  and  the  amount  of  the  recoil — dependent, 
of  course,  on  the  force  with  which  it  is  struck — is 
represented  by  a  series  of  notches  or  marks.  The 
world  is  such  a  buffer.  A  man  strikes  it  with  all 
his  might :  his  mark  may  be  ;^40,ooo,  a  peerage, 
and  Westminster  Abbey,  a  name  in  literature  or 
art;  but  in  every  case  his  mark  is  nicely  deter- 
mined by  the  force  or  the  art  with  which  the 
buffer  is  struck.  Into  the  world  a  man  brings 
his  personality,  and  his  biography  is  simply  a 
catalogue  of  its  results. 

There  are  some  men  who  have  no  individuality, 
just  as  there  are  some  men  who  have  no  face. 
These  are  to  be  described  by  generals,  not  by 
particulars.  They  are  thin,  vapid,  inconclusive. 
They  are  important  solely  on  account  of  their 
numbers.  For  them  the  census  enumerator 
labours ;  they  form  majorities ;  they  crowd  voting- 
booths;  they  make  the  money;  they  do  the 
ordinary  work  of  the  world.  They  are  valuable 
when  well  officered.  They  are  plastic  matter 
to  be  shaped  by  a  workman's  hand ;  and  are  built 
with  as  bricks  are  built  with.     In  the  aggregate, 


OF  A  MAN  TO  HIMSELF  169 

they  form  public  opinion ;  but  then,  in  every  age, 
public  opinion  is  the  disseminated  thoughts  of 
some  half  a  dozen  men,  who  are  in  all  probability 
sleeping  quietly  in  their  graves.  They  retain  dead 
men's  ideas,  just  as  the  atmosphere  retains  the 
light  and  heat  of  the  set  sun.  They  are  not  light 
— they  are  twilight.  To  know  how  to  deal  with 
such  men — to  know  how  to  use  them — is  the 
problem  which  ambitious  force  is  called  upon  to 
solve.  Personality,  individuality,  force  of  char- 
acter, or  by  whatever  name  we  choose  to  designate 
original  and  vigorous  manhood,  is  the  best  thing 
which  nature  has  in  her  gift.  The  forceful  man 
is  a  prophecy  of  the  future.  The  wind  blows 
here,  but  long  after  it  is  spent,  the  big  wave  which 
is  its  creature,  breaks  on  a  shore  a  thousand  miles 
away. 

It  is  curious  how  swiftly  influences  travel  from 
centre  to  circumference.  A  certain  empress 
invents  a  gracefully  pendulous  crinoline,  and 
immediately,  from  Paris  to  the  pole,  the  female 
world  is  behooped;  and  neither  objurgation  of 
brother,  lover,  or  husband,  deaths  by  burning  or 
machinery,  nor  all  the  wit  of  the  satirists,  are 
likely  to  affect  its  vitality.  Never  did  an  idea  go 
round  civilisation  so  rapidly.  Crinoline  has  already 
a  heavier  martyrology  than  many  a  creed.  The 
world  is  used  easily,  if  one  can  only  hit  on  the 
proper  method ;  and  force  of  character,  originality, 
of  whatever  kind,  is  always  certain  to  make  its 
mark.  It  is  a  diamond,  and  the  world  is  its  pane 
of  glass.  In  a  world  so  commonplace  as  this,  the 
peculiar  man  even  should  be  considered  a  blessing. 


lyo  ON  THE  IMPORTANCE 

Humorousness,  eccentricity,  the  habit  of  looking  at 
men  and  things  from  an  odd  angle,  are  valuable, 
because  they  break  the  dead  level  of  society,  and 
take  away  its  sameness.  It  is  well  that  a  man 
should  be  known  by  something  else  than  his 
name :  there  are  few  of  us  who  can  be  known  by 
anything  else,  and  Brown,  Jones,  and  Robinson 
are  the  names  of  the  majority. 

In  literature  and  art,  this  personal  outcome  is  of 
the  highest  value ;  in  fact,  it  is  the  only  thing  truly 
valuable.  The  greatness  of  an  artist  or  a  writer 
does  not  depend  on  what  he  has  in  common  with 
■other  artists  and  writers,  but  on  what  he  has 
peculiar  to  himself.  The  great  man  is  the  man 
who  does  a  thing  for  the  first  time.  It  was  a 
•difficult  thing  to  discover  America ;  since  it  has 
been  discovered,  it  has  been  found  an  easy  enough 
task  to  sail  thither.  It  is  this  peculiar  something 
resident  in  a  poem  or  a  painting  which  is  its  final 
test  —  at  all  events,  possessing  it,  it  has  the 
elements  of  endurance.  Apart  from  its  other 
values,  it  has,  in  virtue  of  that,  a  biographical  one ; 
it  becomes  a  study  of  character;  it  is  a  window 
through  which  you  can  look  into  a  human  interior. 
There  is  a  cleverness  in  the  world  which  seems 
to  have  neither  father  nor  mother.  It  exists,  but 
it  is  impossible  to  tell  from  whence  it  comes — 
just  as  it  is  impossible  to  lift  the  shed  apple 
blossom  of  an  orchard,  and  to  discover,  from  its 
bloom  and  odour,  to  what  branch  it  belonged. 
Such  cleverness  illustrates  nothing:  it  is  an 
anonymous  letter.  Look  at  it  ever  so  long,  and 
;you   cannot   tell   its    lineage.       It    hves    in    the 


OF  A  MAN  TO  HIMSELF  171 

catalogue  of  waifs  and  strays.  On  the  other  hand, 
there  are  men  whose  every  expression  is  character- 
istic, whose  every  idea  seems  to  come  out  of  a 
mould.  In  the  short  sentence,  or  curt,  careless 
saying  of  such,  when  laid  bare,  you  can  read  their 
histories  so  far,  as  in  the  smallest  segment  of  a 
tree  you  can  trace  the  markings  of  its  rings.  The 
first  dies,  because  it  is  shallow-rooted,  and  has  no 
vitality  beyond  its  own ;  the  second  lives,  because 
it  is  related  to  and  fed  by  something  higher  than 
itself.  The  famous  axiom  of  Mrs.  Glass,  that  in 
order  to  make  hare-soup  you  "  must  first  catch  your 
hare,"  has  a  wide  significance.  In  art,  literature, 
social  life,  morals  even,  you  must  first  catch  your 
man :  that  done,  everything  else  follows  as  a 
matter  of  course.  A  man  may  learn  much;  but 
for  the  most  important  thing  of  all  he  can  find 
neither  teachers  nor  schools. 

Each  man  is  the  most  important  thing  in  the 
world  to  himself;  but  why  is  he  to  himself  so 
important?  Simply  because  he  is  a  personality 
with  capacities  of  pleasure,  of  pain,  who  can  be 
hurt,  who  can  be  pleased,  who  can  be  dis- 
appointed, who  labours  and  expects  his  hire,  in 
whose  consciousness,  in  fact,  for  the  time  being, 
the  whole  universe  lives.  He  is,  and  everything 
else  is  relative.  Confined  to  his  own  personality, 
making  it  his  tower  of  outlook,  from  which  only 
he  can  survey  the  outer  world,  he  naturally  enough 
forms  a  rather  high  estimate  of  its  value,  of  its 
dignity,  of  its  intrinsic  worth.  This  high  estimate 
is  useful  in  so  far  as  it  makes  his  condition 
pleasant,  and  it — or  rather  our  proneness  to  form 


172  ON  THE  IMPORTANCE 

it — we  are  accustomed  to  call  vanity.  Vanity — 
which  really  helps  to  keep  the  race  alive — has 
been  treated  harshly  by  the  moralists  and  satirists. 
It  does  not  quite  deserve  the  hard  names  it  has 
been  called.  It  interpenetrates  everything  a  man 
says  or  does,  but  it  interpenetrates  for  a  useful 
purpose.  If  it  is  always  an  alloy  in  the  pure  gold 
of  virtue,  it  at  least  does  the  service  of  an  alloy — 
making  the  precious  metal  workable. 

Nature  gave  man  his  powers,  appetites,  aspira- 
tions, and  along  with  these  a  pan  of  incense,  which 
fumes  from  the  birth  of  consciousness  to  its  decease, 
making  the  best  part  of  life  rapture,  and  the  worst 
part  endurable.  But  for  vanity  the  race  would  have 
died  out  long  ago.  There  are  some  men  whose 
lives  seem  to  us  as  undesirable  as  the  lives  of 
toads  or  serpents;  yet  these  men  breathe  in 
tolerable  content  and  satisfaction.  If  a  man  could 
hear  all  that  his  fellows  say  of  him — that  he  is 
stupid,  that  he  is  henpecked,  that  he  will  be  in  the 
Gazette  in  a  week,  that  his  brain  is  softening,  that 
he  has  said  all  his  best  things — and  if  he  could 
believe  that  these  pleasant  things  are  true,  he 
would  be  in  his  grave  before  the  month  was  out. 
Happily  no  man  does  hear  these  things ;  and  if  he 
did,  they  would  only  provoke  inextinguishable 
wrath  or  inextinguishable  laughter.  A  man 
receives  the  shocks  of  life  on  the  buffer  of  his 
vanity.  Vanity  acts  as  his  second  and  bottleholder 
in  the  world's  prize-ring,  and  it  fights  him  well, 
bringing  him  smilingly  up  to  time  after  the  fiercest 
knock-down  blows.  Vanity  is  to  a  man  what  the 
oily  secretion  is  to  a  bird,  with  which  it  sleeks  and 


OF  A  MAN  TO  HIMSELF  173 

adjusts  the  plumage  ruffled  by  whatever  causes. 
Vanity  is  not  only  instrumental  in  keeping  a  man 
alive  and  in  heart,  but,  in  its  lighter  manifesta- 
tions, it  is  the  great  sweetener  of  social  existence. 
It  is  the  creator  of  dress  and  fashion;  it  is  the 
inventor  of  forms  and  ceremonies;  to  it  we  are 
indebted  for  all  our  traditions  of  civility.  For 
vanity  in  its  idler  moments  is  benevolent,  is  as 
willing  to  give  pleasure  as  to  take  it,  and  accepts 
as  sufficient  reward  for  its  services  a  kind  word  or 
an  approving  smile.  It  delights  to  bask  in  the 
sunshine  of  approbation.  Out  of  man  vanity 
makes  genflema.n.  The  proud  man  is  cold,  the 
selfish  man  hard  and  griping — the  vain  man  desires 
to  shine,  to  please,  to  make  himself  agreeable ; 
and  this  amiable  feeling  works  to  the  outside 
in  suavity  and  charm  of  manner.  The  French 
are  the  vainest  people  in  Europe,  and  the  most 
polite. 

As  each  man  is  to  himself  the  most  important 
thing  in  the  world,  each  man  is  an  egotist  in  his 
thinkings,  in  his  desires,  in  his  fears.  It  does  not, 
however,  follow  that  each  man  must  be  an  egotist 
— as  the  word  is  popularly  understood — in  his 
speech.  But  even  although  this  were  the  case, 
the  world  would  be  divided  into  egotists,  likeable 
and  unlikeable.  There  are  two  kinds  of  egotism, 
a  trifling  vain-glorious  kind,  a  mere  burning  of 
personal  incense,  in  which  the  man  is  at  once 
altar,  priest,  censer,  and  divinity;  a  kind  which 
deals  with  the  accidents  and  wrappages  of  the 
speaker,  his  equipage,  his  riches,  his  family,  his 
servants,  his  furniture  and  array.     The  other  kind 


174  ON  THE  IMPORTANCE 

has  no  taint  of  self-aggrandisement,  but  is  rooted 
in  the  faculties  of  love  and  humour;  and  this 
latter  kind  is  never  offensive,  because  it  includes 
others,  and  knows  no  scorn  or  exclusiveness.  The 
one  is  the  offspring  of  a  narrow  and  unimaginat- 
ive personality;  the  other  of  a  large  and  genial 
one. 

There  are  persons  who  are  the  terrors  of 
society.  Perfectly  innocent  of  evil  intention, 
they  are  yet,  with  a  certain  brutal  unconsciousness, 
continually  trampling  on  other  people's  corns. 
They  touch  you  every  now  and  again  like  a  red-hot 
iron.  You  wince,  acquit  them  of  any  desire  to 
wound,  but  find  forgiveness  a  hard  task.  These 
persons  remember  everything  about  themselves, 
and  forget  everything  about  you.  They  have  the 
instinct  of  a  flesh-fly  for  a  raw.  Should  your  great- 
grandfather have  had  the  misfortune  to  be  hanged, 
such  a  person  is  certain,  on  some  public  occasion,  to 
make  allusion  to  your  pedigree.  He  will  probably 
insist  on  your  furnishing  him  with  a  sketch  of  your 
family  tree.  If  your  daughter  has  made  a  runaway 
marriage — on  which  subject  yourself  and  friends 
maintain  a  judicious  silence — he  is  certain  to 
stumble  upon  it,  and  make  the  old  sore  smart 
again.  In  all  this  there  is  no  malice,  no  desire  to 
wound ;  it  arises  simply  from  want  of  imagination, 
from  profound  immersion  in  self.  An  imaginative 
man  recognises  at  once  a  portion  of  himself  in 
his  fellow,  and  speaks  to  that.  To  hurt  you  is  to 
hurt  himself.  Much  of  the  rudeness  we  encounter 
in  life  cannot  be  properly  set  down  to  cruelty  or 
badness   of   heart.     The    unimaginative    man    is 


OF  A  MAN  TO  HIMSELF  175 

callous,  and  although  he  hurts  easily,  he  cannot 
be  easily  hurt  in  return.  The  imaginative  man  is 
sensitive  and  merciful  to  others  out  of  the  merest 
mercy  to  himself. 

In  literature,  as  in  social  life,  the  attractiveness 
of  egotism  depends  entirely  upon  the  egotist.  If 
he  be  a  conceited  man,  full  of  self-admirations 
and  vain-glories,  his  egotism  will  disgust  and 
repel.  When  he  sings  his  own  praises,  his  reader 
feels  that  reflections  are  being  thrown  on  himself, 
and  in  a  natural  revenge  he  calls  the  writer  a 
coxcomb.  If,  on  the  other  hand,  he  be  loving, 
genial,  humorous,  with  a  sympathy  for  others,  his 
garrulousness  and  his  personal  allusions  are 
forgiven,  because,  while  revealing  himself,  he  is 
revealing  his  reader  as  well.  A  man  may  write 
about  himself  during  his  whole  life  without  once 
tiring  or  offending;  but  to  accomplish  this,  he 
must  be  interesting  in  himself — be  a  man  of 
curious  and  vagrant  moods,  gifted  with  the 
cunningest  tact  and  humour;  and  the  experience 
which  he  relates  must  at  a  thousand  points  touch 
the  experiences  of  his  readers,  so  that  they,  as  it 
were,  become  partners  in  his  game.  When  X. 
tells  me,  with  an  evident  swell  of  pride,  that  he 
dines  constantly  with  half  a  dozen  men-servants 
in  attendance,  or  that  he  never  drives  abroad 
save  in  a  coach-and-six,  I  am  not  conscious  of 
any  special  gratitude  to  X.  for  the  information. 
Possibly,  if  my  establishment  boasts  only  of 
Cinderella,  and  if  a  cab  is  the  only  vehicle  in 
which  I  can  afford  to  ride,  and  all  the  more  if  I 
can  indulge  in  that  only  on  occasions  of  solemnity,. 


176  ON  THE  IMPORTANCE 

I  fly  into  a  rage,  pitch  the  book  to  the  other  end 
of  the  room,  and  may  never  afterwards  be  brought 
to  admit  that  X.  is  possessor  of  a  solitary  ounce 
of  brains. 

If,  on  the  other  hand,  Z.  informs  me  that  every 
February  he  goes  out  to  the  leafless  woods  to 
hunt  early  snowdrops,  and  brings  home  bunches 
of  them  in  his  hat ;  or  that  he  prefers  in  woman 
a  brown  eye  to  a  blue,  and  explains  by  early 
love  passages  his  reasons  for  the  preference,  I 
do  not  get  angry ;  on  the  contrary,  I  feel  quite 
pleased;  perhaps,  if  the  matter  is  related  with 
unusual  grace  and  tenderness,  it  is  read  with  a 
certain  moisture  and  dimness  of  eye.  And  the 
reason  is  obvious.  The  egotistical  X.  is  barren, 
and  suggests  nothing  beyond  himself,  save  that 
he  is  a  good  deal  better  off"  than  I  am — a  reflection 
much  pleasanter  to  him  than  it  is  to  me ;  whereas 
the  equally  egotistical  Z.,  with  a  single  sentence 
about  his  snowdrops,  or  his  liking  for  brown  eyes 
rather  than  for  blue,  sends  my  thoughts  wandering 
away  back  among  my  dead  spring-times,  or  wafts 
me  the  odours  of  the  roses  of  those  summers 
when  the  colour  of  an  eye  was  of  more  importance 
than  it  now  is.  X.'s  men-servants  and  coach- and- 
six  do  not  fit  into  the  life  of  his  reader,  because 
in  all  probability  his  reader  knows  as  much  about 
these  things  as  he  knows  about  Pharaoh;  Z.'s 
snowdrops  and  preferences  of  colour  do,  because 
every  one  knows  what  the  spring  thirst  is,  and 
every  one  in  his  time  has  been  enslaved  by  eyes 
whose  colour  he  could  not  tell  for  his  life,  but 
which    he    knew   were    the  tenderest  that  ever 


OF  A  MAN  TO  HIMSELF  177 

looked  love,  the  brightest  that  ever  flashed 
sunlight.  Montaigne  and  Charles  Lamb  are 
egotists  of  the  Z.  class,  and  the  world  never 
wearies  reading  them;  nor  are  egotists  of  the 
X.  school  absolutely  without  entertainment. 
Several  of  these  the  world  reads  assiduously  too, 
although  for  another  reason.  The  avid  vanity  of 
Mr.  Pepys  would  be  gratified  if  made  aware  of 
the  success  of  his  Diary ;  but  curiously  to  inquire 
into  the  reason  of  that  success,  why  his  Diary  has 
been  found  so  amusing,  would  not  conduce  to  his 
comfort. 

After  all,  the  only  thing  a  man  knows  is  himself. 
The  world  outside  he  can  know  only  by  hearsay. 
His  shred  of  personality  is  all  he  has ;  than  that, 
he  is  nothing  richer,  nothing  poorer.  Everything 
else  is  mere  accident  and  appendage.  Alexander 
must  not  be  measured  by  the  shoutings  of  his 
armies,  nor  Lazarus  at  Dives'  gates  by  his  sores. 
And  a  man  knows  himself  only  in  part.  In  every 
nature,  as  in  Australia,  there  is  an  unexplored 
territory — green,  well-watered  regions  or  mere 
sandy  deserts ;  and  into  that  territory  experience 
is  making  progress  day  by  day.  We  can  remember 
when  we  knew  only  the  outer  childish  rim — and 
from  the  crescent  guessed  the  sphere ;  whether,  as 
we  advanced,  these  guesses  have  been  realised, 
each  knows  for  himself. 


12 


A  SHELF  IN  MY  BOOKCASE. 

WHEN  a  man  glances  critically  through  the 
circle  of  his  intimate  friends,  he  is 
obliged  to  confess  that  they  are  far  from  being 
perfect.  They  possess  neither  the  beauty  of 
Apollo,  nor  the  wisdom  of  Solon,  nor  the  wit  of 
Mercutio,  nor  the  reticence  of  Napoleon  in.  If 
pushed  hard,  he  will  be  constrained  to  admit  that 
he  has  known  each  and  all  get  angry  without 
sufficient  occasion,  make  at  times  the  foolishest 
remarks,  and  act  as  if  personal  comfort  were  the 
highest  thing  in  their  estimation.  Yet,  driven 
thus  to  the  wall,  forced  to  make  such  uncomfort- 
able confessions,  our  supposed  man  does  not 
like  his  friends  one  whit  the  less;  nay  more,  he 
is  aware  that  if  they  were  very  superior  and  fault- 
less persons  he  would  not  be  conscious  of  so 
much  kindly  feeling  towards  them.  The  tide  of 
friendship  does  not  rise  high  on  the  bank  of 
perfection.  Amiable  weaknesses  and  short-com- 
ings are  the  food  of  love.  It  is  from  the  rough- 
nesses and  imperfect  breaks  in  a  man  that  you 
are  able  to  lay  hold  of  him.  If  a  man  be  an 
entire  and  perfect  chrysolite,  you  slide  off  him 
173 


A  SHELF  IN  MY  BOOKCASE       179, 

and  fall  back  into  ignorance.  My  friends  are 
not  perfect — no  more  am  I — and  so  we  suit  each 
other  admirably.  Their  weaknesses  keep  mine 
in  countenance,  and  so  save  me  from  humiliation 
and  shame.  We  give  and  take,  bear  and  forbear ; 
the  stupidity  they  utter  to-day  salves  the  recollec- 
tion of  the  stupidity  I  uttered  yesterday ;  in  their 
want  of  wit  I  see  my  own,  and  so  feel  satisfied 
and  kindly  disposed.  It  is  one  of  the  charitable 
dispensations  of  Providence  that  perfection  is 
not  essential  to  friendship.  If  I  had  to  seek  my 
perfect  man,  I  should  wander  the  world  a  good 
while,  and  when  I  found  him,  and  was  down  on 
my  knees  before  him,  he  would,  to  a  certainty, 
turn  the  cold  shoulder  on  me — and  so  life  would 
be  an  eternal  search,  broken  by  the  coldness  of 
repulse  and  loneliness.  Only  to  the  perfect  being 
in  an  imperfect  world,  or  the  imperfect  being  in 
a  perfect  world,  is  everything  irretrievably  out  of 
joint. 

On  a  certain  shelf,  in  the  bookcase  which  stands 
in  the  room  in  which  I  am  at  present  sitting — 
bookcase  surmounted  by  a  white  Dante,  looking 
out  with  bhnd,  majestic  eyes — are  collected  a 
number  of  volumes  which  look  somewhat  the 
worse  for  wear.  Those  of  them  which  originally 
possessed  gilding  have  had  it  fingered  off,  each 
of  them  has  leaves  turned  down,  and  they  open 
of  themselves  at  places  wherein  I  have  been 
happy,  and  with  whose  every  word  I  am  familiar 
as  with  the  furniture  of  the  room  in  which  I 
nightly  slumber;  each  of  them  has  remarks 
relevant  and  irrelevant  scribbled  on  their  margins^ 


i8o      A  SHELF  IN  MY  BOOKCASE 

These  favourite  volumes  cannot  be  called  peculiar 
glories  of  literature ;  but  out  of  the  world  of  books 
have  I  singled  them,  as  I  have  singled  my 
intimates  out  of  the  world  of  men.  I  am  on 
easy  terms  with  them,  and  feel  that  they  are  no 
higher  than  my  heart.  Milton  is  not  there, 
neither  is  Wordsworth;  Shakspeare,  if  he  had 
written  comedies  only,  would  have  been  there  to 
a  certainty,  but  the  presence  of  the  five  great 
tragedies  —  Hamlet,  Othello,  Macbeth,  Lear, 
Antony  and  Cleopatra — for  this  last  should  be 
always  included  among  his  supreme  efforts — has 
made  me  place  him  on  the  shelf  where  the 
mighty  men  repose,  himself  the  mightiest  of  all. 
Reading  Milton  is  like  dining  off  gold  plate  in  a 
company  of  kings;  very  splendid,  very  cere- 
monious, and  not  a  little  appalling.  Him  I  read 
but  seldom,  and  only  on  high  days  and  festivals 
of  the  spirit.  Him  I  never  lay  down  without 
feeling  my  appreciation  increased  for  lesser  men — 
never  without  the  same  kind  of  comfort  that  one 
returning  from  the  presence  feels  when  he  doffs 
respectful  attitude  and  dress  of  ceremony,  and 
subsides  into  old  coat,  familiar  arm-chair,  and 
slippers.  After  long-continued  organ-music,  the 
jangle  of  the  Jew's  harp  is  felt  as  an  exquisite 
relief.  With  the  volumes  on  the  special  shelf  I 
have  spoken  of,  I  am  quite  at  home,  and  I  feel 
somehow  as  if  they  were  at  home  with  me.  And 
as  to-day  the  trees  bend  to  the  blast,  and  the 
rain  comes  in  dashes  against  my  window,  and  as 
I  have  nothing  to  do  and  cannot  get  out,  and 
wish  to  kill  the  hours  in  as  pleasant  a  manner  as 


A  SHELF  IN  MY  BOOKCASE       i8i 

I  can,  I  shall  even  talk  about  them,  as  in  sheer 
liking  a  man  talks  about  the  trees  in  his  garden, 
or  the  pictures  on  his  wall.  I  can't  expect  to 
say  anything  very  new  or  striking,  but  I  can  give 
utterance  to  sincere  affection,  and  that  is  always 
pleasant  to  one's  self  and  generally  not  ungrateful 
to  others. 

First,  then,  on  this  special  shelf  stands 
Nathaniel  Hawthorne's  Twice-Told  Tales.  It  is 
difiEicult  to  explain  why  I  like  these  short  sketches 
and  essays,  written  in  the  author's  early  youth, 
better  than  his  later,  more  finished,  and  better- 
known  novels  and  romances.  The  world  sets 
greater  store  by  The  Scarlet  Letter  and  Transforma- 
tion than  by  this  little  book — and,  in  such  matters 
of  liking  against  the  judgment  of  the  world,  there 
is  no  appeal.  I  think  the  reason  of  my  liking 
consists  in  this — that  the  novels  were  written  for 
the  world,  while  the  tales  seem  written  for  the 
author  ;  in  these  he  is  actor  and  audience  in  one. 
Consequently,  one  gets  nearer  him,  just  as  one 
gets  nearer  an  artist  in  his  first  sketch  than  in 
his  finished  picture.  And  after  all,  one  takes  the 
greatest  pleasure  in  those  books  in  which  a 
peculiar  personality  is  most  clearly  revealed.  A 
thought  may  be  very  commendable  as  a  thought, 
but  I  value  it  chiefly  as  a  window  through  which 
I  can  obtain  insight  on  the  thinker;  and  Mr. 
Hawthorne's  personality  is  peculiar,  and  specially 
peculiar  in  a  new  country  like  America.  He  is 
quiet,  fanciful,  quaint,  and  his  humour  is  shaded 
by  a  certain  meditativeness  of  spirit.  Although  a 
Yankee,  he  partakes  of  none  of  the  characteristics 


i82      A  SHELF  IN  MY  BOOKCASE 

of  a  Yankee.  His  thinking  and  his  style  have  an 
antique  air.  His  roots  strike  down  through  the 
visible  mould  of  the  present,  and  draw  sustenance 
from  the  generations  under  ground.  The  ghosts 
that  haunt  the  chamber  of  his  mind  are  the 
ghosts  of  dead  men  and  women.  He  has  a 
strong  smack  of  the  Puritan ;  he  wears  around 
him,  in  the  New  England  town,  something  of 
the  darkness  and  mystery  of  the  aboriginal  forest. 
He  is  a  shy,  silent,  sensitive,  much-ruminating 
man,  with  no  special  overflow  of  animal  spirits. 
He  loves  solitude  and  the  things  which  age  has 
made  reverent.  There  is  nothing  modern  about 
him.  Emerson's  writing  has  a  cold,  cheerless 
glitter,  like  the  new  furniture  in  a  warehouse, 
which  will  come  of  use  by  and  by ;  Hawthorne's, 
the  rich,  subdued  colour  of  furniture  in  a  Tudor 
mansion-house  —  which  has  winked  to  long- 
extinguished  fires,  which  has  been  toned  by  the 
usage  of  departed  generations.  In  many  of  the 
Twice-Told  Tales  this  peculiar  personality  is 
charmingly  exhibited.  He  writes  of  the  street  or 
the  seashore,  his  eye  takes  in  every  object, 
however  trifling,  and  on  these  he  hangs  comments 
melancholy  and  humorous.  He  does  not  require 
to  go  far  for  a  subject;  he  will  stare  on  the 
puddles  in  the  street  of  a  New  England  village, 
and  immediately  it  becomes  a  Mediterranean  Sea 
with  empires  lying  on  its  muddy  shores.  If  the 
sermon  be  written  out  fully  in  your  heart,  almost 
any  text  will  be  suitable — if  you  have  to  find  your 
sermon  in  your  text,  you  may  search  the  Testa- 
ment, New  and  Old,  and  be  as  poor  at  the  close  of 


A  SHELF  IN  MY  BOOKCASE       183 

Revelation  as  when  you  started  at  the  first  book  of 
Genesis.  Several  of  the  papers  which  I  like  best  are 
monologues,  fanciful,  humorous,  or  melancholy; 
and  of  these,  my  chief  favourites  are :  "  Sunday 
At  Home,"  "  Night  Sketches,"  "  Footprints  on  the 
Seashore,"  and  the  "Seven  Vagabonds."  This 
last  seems  to  me  almost  the  most  exquisite  thing 
which  has  flowed  from  its  author's  pen — a  perfect 
little  drama,  the  place  a  showman's  waggon,  the 
time  the  falling  of  a  summer  shower,  full  of  subtle 
suggestions,  which,  if  followed,  will  lead  the 
reader  away  out  of  the  story  altogether ;  and  illumin- 
ated by  a  grave,  wistful  kind  of  humour,  which 
plays  in  turns  upon  the  author's  companions,  and 
upon  the  author  himself.  Of  all  Mr.  Hawthorne's 
gifts,  this  gift  of  humour — which  would  light  up 
the  skull  and  cross-bones  of  a  village  churchyard, 
which  would  be  silent  at  a  dinner-table — is  to  me 
the  most  delightful. 

Then  this  writer  has  a  strangely  weird  power. 
He  loves  ruins  like  the  ivy,  he  skims  the  twilight 
like  the  bat,  he  makes  himself  a  familiar  of  the 
phantoms  of  the  heart  and  brain.  He  believes  in 
ghosts ;  perhaps  he  has  seen  one  burst  on  him 
from  the  impalpable  air.  He  is  fascinated  by  the 
jarred  brain  and  the  ruined  heart.  Other  men 
collect  china,  books,  pictures,  jewels;  this  writer 
collects  singular  human  experiences,  ancient  wrongs 
and  agonies,  murders  done  on  unfrequented  roads, 
crimes  that  seem  to  have  no  motive,  and  aU  the 
dreary  mysteries  of  the  world  of  will.  To  his 
chamber  of  horrors  Madame  Tussaud's  is  no- 
thing.    With  proud,  prosperous,  healthy  men,  Mr. 


i84      A  SHELF  IN  MY  BOOKCASE 

Hawthorne    has    little    sympathy;    he    prefers   a 
cracked  piano   to   a   new   one,  he  likes  cobwebs 
in  the  corner  of  his  rooms.     All  this  peculiar  taste 
comes  out  strongly  in   the   little   book   in  whose 
praise  I  am  writing.    I  read  "  The  Minister's  Black 
Veil,"  and  find  it  the   first  sketch  of  the  Scarlet 
Letter.    In  "  Wakefield  " — the  story  of  the  man  who 
left  his  wife,  remaining  away  twenty  years,  but  who 
yet   looked  upon   her  every  day  to   appease   his 
burning  curiosity  as   to   her  manner  of  enduring 
his  absence — I   find   the   keenest   analysis   of  an 
almost    incomprehensible    act.      And    then    Mr. 
Hawthorne  has  a  skill  in  constructing  allegories 
which  no  one  of  his  contemporaries,  either  English 
or  American,  possesses.     These  allegorical  papers 
may  be   read  with   pleasure,  for   their  ingenuity, 
their  grace,   their   poetical   feeling;    but  just   as, 
gazing  on  the  surface  of  a  stream,  admiring  the 
ripples  and  eddies,  and  the  widening  rings  made 
by  the   butterfly  falling   into   it,  you  begin  to  be 
conscious  that  there  is  something  at  the  bottom, 
and  gradually  a  dead  face  wavers  upwards  from  the 
oozy  weeds,  becoming  every  moment  more  clearly 
defined,    so    through    Mr.    Hawthorne's    graceful 
sentences,  if  read  attentively,  begins  to  flash  the 
hidden  meaning,  a  meaning,  perhaps,  the  writer  did 
not  care  to  express  formally  and  in  set  terms,  and 
which  he  merely  suggests  and  leaves  the  reader  to 
make  out  for  himself.     If  you  have  the  book  I  am 
writing  about,  turn  up  "  David  Swan,"  "  The  Great 
Carbuncle,"  *'  The  Fancy  Show-box,"  and  after  you 
have    read    these,   you   will    understand   what    I 
mean. 


A  SHELF  IN  MY  BOOKCASE       185 

The  next  two  books  on  my  shelf — books  at  this 
moment  leaning  on  the  Twice-Told  Tales — are 
Professor  Aytoun's  Ballads  of  Scotland,  and  the 
Lyra  Germanica.  These  books  I  keep  side  by 
side  with  a  purpose.  The  forms  of  existence  with 
which  they  deal  seem  widely  separated ;  but  a 
strong  kinship  exists  between  them  for  all  that.  I 
open  Professor  Aytoun's  book,  and  all  this  modern 
life — with  its  railways,  its  newspapers,  its  crowded 
cities,  its  Lancashire  distresses,  its  debates  in 
Parliament — fades  into  nothingness  and  silence. 
Scotland,  from  Edinburgh  Rock  to  the  Tweed, 
stretches  away  in  rude  spaces  of  moor  and  forest. 
The  wind  blows  across  it,  unpolluted  by  the  smoke 
of  towns.  That  which  lives  now  has  not  yet  come 
into  existence;  what  are  to-day  crumbling  and 
ivied  ruins,  are  warm  with  household  fires,  and 
filled  with  human  activities.  Every  Border  keep 
is  a  home  :  brides  are  taken  there  in  their  blushes ; 
children  are  born  there ;  grey  men,  the  crucifix 
held  over  them,  die  there.  The  moon  dances  on 
a  plump  of  spears,  as  the  moss-troopers,  by  secret 
and  desert  paths,  ride  over  into  England  to  lift  a 
prey,  and  the  bale-fire  on  the  hill  gives  the  alarm 
to  Cumberland.  Men  live  and  marry,  and  sup- 
port wife  and  little  ones  by  steel-jacket  and  spear ; 
and  the  Flower  of  Yarrow,  when  her  larder  is 
empty,  claps  a  pair  of  spurs  in  her  husband's 
platter.  A  time  of  strife  and  foray,  of  plundering 
and  burning,  of  stealing  and  reaving;  when  hate 
waits  half  a  lifetime  for  revenge,  and  where 
difficulties  are  solved  by  the  slash  of  a  sword- 
blade.     I  open  the  German  book,  and  find  a  war- 


186      A  SHELF  IN  MY  BOOKCASE 

fare  conducted  in  a  different  manner.  Here  the 
Devil  rides  about  wasting  and  destroying.  Here 
temptations  lie  in  wait  for  the  soul ;  here  pleasures, 
like  glittering  meteors,  lure  it  into  marshes  and 
abysses.  Watch  and  ward  are  kept  here,  and  to 
sleep  at  the  post  is  death.  Fortresses  are  built  on 
the  rock  of  God's  promises — inaccessible  to  the 
arrows  of  the  wicked — and  therein  dwell  many 
trembling  souls.  Conflict  rages  around,  not  con- 
ducted by  Border  spear  on  barren  moorland,  but 
by  weapons  of  faith  and  prayer  in  the  devout 
German  heart ; — a  strife  earnest  as  the  other,  with 
issues  of  life  and  death.  And  the  resemblance 
between  the  books  lies  in  this,  that  when  we  open 
them  these  past  experiences  and  conditions  of  life 
gleam  visibly  to  us  far  down  like  submerged  cities 
— all  empty  and  hollow  now,  though  once  filled 
with  life  as  real  as  our  own — through  transparent 
waters. 

In  glancing  over  these  German  hymns,  one  is 
struck  by  their  adaptation  to  the  seasons  and 
occurrences  of  ordinary  life.  Obviously,  too,  the 
writer's  religion  was  not  a  Sunday  matter  only,  it 
had  its  place  in  week-days  as  well.  In  these 
hymns  there  is  little  gloom ;  a  healthy  human 
cheerfulness  pervades  many  of  them,  and  this  is 
surely  as  it  ought  to  be.  These  hymns,  as  I  have 
said,  are  adapted  to  the  occasions  of  ordinary  life, 
and  this  speaks  favourably  of  the  piety  which 
produced  them.  I  do  not  suppose  that  we  English 
are  less  reHgious  than  other  nations,  but  we  are 
undemonstrative  in  this,  as  in  most  things.  We 
have  the  sincerest  horror  of  over-dressing  ourselves 


A  SHELF  IN  MY  BOOKCASE       187 

in  fine  sentiments.  We  are  a  little  shy  of  religion. 
We  give  it  a  day  entirely  to  itself,  and  make  it  a 
stranger  to  the  other  six.  We  confine  it  in 
churches,  or  in  the  closet  at  home,  and  never 
think  of  taking  it  with  us  to  the  street,  or  into 
our  business,  or  with  us  to  the  festival,  or  the 
gathering  of  friends.  Dr.  Arnold  used  to  com- 
plain that  he  could  get  religious  subjects  treated 
in  a  masterly  way,  but  could  not  get  common 
subjects  treated  in  a  religious  spirit.  The  Germans 
have  done  better :  they  have  melted  down  the 
Sunday  into  the  week.  They  have  hymns  em- 
bodying confessions  of  sin,  hymns  in  the  near 
prospect  of  death ;  and  they  have — what  is  more 
important — spiritual  songs  that  may  be  sung  by 
soldiers  on  the  march,  by  the  artisan  at  the  loom, 
by  the  peasant  following  his  team,  by  the  mother 
among  her  children,  and  by  the  maiden  sitting  at 
her  wheel  listening  for  the  step  of  her  lover. 
Religion  is  thus  brought  in  to  refine  and  hallow 
the  sweet  necessities  and  emotions  of  life,  to  cheer 
its  weariness,  and  to  exalt  its  sordidness.  The 
German  life  revolves  like  the  village  festival  with 
the  pastor  in  the  midst — ^joy  and  laughter  and 
merry  games  do  not  fear  the  holy  man,  for  he 
wears  no  unkindness  in  his  eye,  but  his  presence 
checks  everything  boisterous  or  unseemly — the 
rude  word,  the  petulant  act — and  when  it  has 
run  its  course,  he  uplifts  his  hands  and  leaves  his 
benediction  on  his  children. 

The  Lyra  Germanica  contains  the  utterances 
of  pious  German  souls  in  all  conditions  of  life 
during  many   centuries.     In  it  hymns  are   to  be 


i88      A  SHELF  IN  MY  BOOKCASE 

found  written  not  only  by  poor  clergymen,  and  still 
poorer  precentors,  by  riband  manufacturers  and 
shoemakers,  who,  amid  rude  environments,  had  a 
touch  of  celestial  melody  in  their  hearts,  but  by 
noble  ladies  and  gentlemen,  and  crowned  kings. 
The  oldest  in  the  collection  is  one  written  by  King 
Robert  of  France  about  the  year  looo.  It  is 
beautifully  simple  and  pathetic.  State  is  laid  aside 
with  the  crown,  pride  with  the  royal  robe,  and 
Lazarus  at  Dives'  gate  could  not  have  written  out 
of  a  lowlier  heart.  The  kingly  brow  may  bear 
itself  high  enough  before  men,  the  voice  may 
be  commanding  and  imperious  enough,  cutting 
through  contradiction  as  with  a  sword,  but  before 
the  Highest  all  is  humbleness  and  bended  knees. 
Other  compositions  there  are,  scattered  through 
the  volume,  by  great  personages  —  several  by 
Louisa  Henrietta,  Electress  of  Brandenburg,  and 
Anton  Ulrick,  Duke  of  Brunswick — all  written  two 
hundred  years  ago.  These  are  genuine  poems,  full 
of  faith  and  charity,  and  calm  trust  in  God.  They 
are  all  dead  now,  these  noble  gentlemen  and 
gentlewoman ;  their  warfare,  successful  or  adverse, 
has  been  long  closed,  but  they  gleam  yet  in  my 
fancy,  like  the  white  effigies  on  tombs  in  dim 
cathedrals,  the  marble  palms  pressed  together  on 
the  marble  breast,  the  sword  by  the  side  of  the 
knight,  the  psalter  by  the  side  of  the  lady,  and 
flowing  around  them  the  scrolls  on  which  are 
inscribed  the  texts  of  resurrection. 

This  book  contains  surely  one  of  the  most 
touching  of  human  compositions — a  song  of 
Luther's.     The  great   Reformer's   music  resounds 


A  SHELF  IN  MY  BOOKCASE       189 

to  this  day  in  our  churches ;  and  one  of  the  rude 
hymns  he  wrote  has  such  a  step  of  thunder  in  it, 
that  the  father  of  Frederick  the  Great,  Mr.  Carlyle 
tells  us,  used  to  call  it  "  God  Almighty's  Grenadier 
March."  This  one  I  speak  of  is  of  another  mood, 
and  is  soft  as  tears.  To  appreciate  it  thoroughly, 
one  must  think  of  the  burly,  resolute,  humorous, 
and  withal  tender-hearted  man,  and  of  the  work  he 
accomplished.  He  it  was,  the  Franklin's  kite,  led 
by  the  highest  hand,  that  went  up  into  the  papal 
thundercloud  hanging  black  over  Europe;  and 
the  angry  fire  that  broke  upon  it  burned  it  not, 
and  in  roars  of  boltless  thunder  the  apparition 
collapsed,  and  the  sun  of  truth  broke  through  the 
inky  fragments  on  the  nations  once  again.  He  it 
was  who,  when  advised  not  to  trust  himself  in 
Worms,  declared,  "Although  there  be  as  many 
devils  in  Worms  as  there  are  tiles  on  the  house- 
tops, I  will  go."  He  it  was  who,  when  brought  to 
bay  in  the  splendid  assemblage,  said,  "  It  is  neither 
safe  nor  prudent  to  do  aught  against  conscience. 
Here  stand  I — I  cannot  do  otherwise.  God  help 
me.  Amen."  The  rock  cannot  move  —  the 
lightnings  may  splinter  it.  Think  of  these  things, 
and  then  read  Luther's  Christmas  Carol  with  its 
tender  inscription,  "  Luther — written  for  his  little 
son  Hans,  1546."  Coming  from  another  pen,  the 
stanzas  were  perhaps  not  much ;  coming  from  his^ 
they  move  one  like  the  finest  eloquence.  This 
song  sunk  deep  into  the  hearts  of  the  common 
people,  and  is  still  sung  from  the  dome  of  the 
Kreuz  Kirche  in  Dresden  before  daybreak  on 
Christmas  morning. 


I90      A  SHELF  IN  MY  BOOKCASE 

There  is  no  more  delightful  reading  in  the  world 
than  these  Scottish  ballads.  The  mailed  knight, 
the  Border  peel,  the  moonlight  raid,  the  lady  at 
her  bower  window — all  these  have  disappeared 
from  the  actual  world,  and  lead  existence  now  as 
songs.  Verses  and  snatches  of  these  ballads  are 
continually  haunting  and  twittering  about  my 
memory,  as  in  summer  the  swallows  haunt  and 
twitter  about  the  eaves  of  my  dwelling.  I  know 
them  so  well,  and  they  meet  a  mortal  man's 
experience  so  fully,  that  I  am  sure — with,  perhaps, 
a  little  help  from  Shakspeare — I  could  conduct  the 
whole  of  my  business  by  quotation — do  all  its 
love-making,  pay  all  its  tavern  scores,  quarrel  and 
make  friends  again  in  their  words,  far  better  than 
I  could  in  my  own.  If  you  know  these  ballads, 
you  will  find  that  they  mirror  perfectly  your  every 
mood.  If  you  are  weary  and  down-hearted,  behold, 
a  verse  starts  to  your  memory  trembling  with  the 
very  sigh  you  have  heaved.  If  you  are  merry,  a 
stanza  is  dancing  to  the  tune  of  your  own  mirth. 
If  you  love,  be  you  ever  so  much  a  Romeo,  here  is 
the  finest  language  for  your  using.  If  you  hate, 
here  are  words  which  are  daggers.  If  you  like 
battle,  here  for  two  hundred  years  have  trumpets 
been  blowing  and  banners  flapping.  If  you  are 
dying,  plentiful  are  the  broken  words  here  which 
have  hovered  on  failing  lips.  Turn  where  you 
will,  some  fragment  of  a  ballad  is  sure  to  meet  you. 
Go  into  the  loneliest  places  of  experience  and 
passion,  and  you  discover  that  you  are  walking  in 
human  footprints.  If  you  should  happen  to  lift 
the  first  volume  of  Professor  Aytoun's  Ballads  of 


A  SHELF  IN  MY  BOOKCASE       191 

Scotland,  the  book  of  its  own  accord  will  open  at 
"Clerk  Saunders,"  and  by  that  token  you  will 
guess  that  the  ballad  has  been  read  and  reread  a 
thousand  times.  And  what  a  ballad  it  is !  The 
story  in  parts  is  somewhat  perilous  to  deal  with, 
but  with  what  instinctive  delicacy  the  whole  matter 
is  managed !  Then  what  tragic  pictures,  what 
pathos,  what  manly  and  womanly  love !  Just  fancy 
how  the  sleeping  lovers,  the  raised  torches,  and  the 
faces  of  the  seven  brothers  looking  on,  would  gleani 
on  the  canvas  of  Mr.  Millais ! 

"  *  For  in  may  come  my  seven  bauld  brothers, 
Wi'  torches  burning  bright.' 

"  It  was  about  the  midnight  hour, 
And  they  were  fa'en  asleep, 
When  in  and  came  her  seven  brothers, 
And  stood  at  her  bed  feet. 

"Then  out  and  spake  the  first  o'  them, 
'We'll  awa'  and  let  them  be.' 
Then  out  and  spake  the  second  o'  them, 
'  His  father  has  nae  mair  than  he.' 

"  Then  out  and  spake  the  third  o'  them, 
'I  wot  they  are  lovers  dear.' 
Then  out  and  spake  the  fourth  o'  them, 
'  They  ha'e  lo'ed  for  mony  a  year. ' 

"Then  out  and  spake  the  fifth  o'  them, 
'  It  were  sin  true  love  to  twain.' 
'  'Twere  shame,'  out  spake  the  sixth  o'  them, 
'  To  slay  a  sleeping  man  ! ' 

"Then  up  and  gat  the  seventh  o'  them, 
And  never  a  word  spake  he. 
But  he  has  striped  his  bright-brown  brand 
Through  Saunders's  fair  bodie. 


192      A  SHELF  IN  MY  BOOKCASE 

"Clerk  Saunders  he  started,  and  Margaret  she  turn'd 
Into  his  arms  as  asleep  she  lay, 
And  sad  and  silent  was  the  night 
That  was  at  ween  thir  twae." 

Could  a  word  be  added  or  taken  from  these 
verses  without  spoiling  the  effect?  You  never 
think  of  the  language,  so  vividly  is  the  picture 
impressed  on  the  imagination.  I  see  at  this 
moment  the  sleeping  pair,  the  bright-burning 
torches,  the  lowering  faces  of  the  brethren,  and 
the  one  fiercer  and  darker  than  the  others. 

Pass  we  now  to  the  Second  Part : 

"Sae  painfully  she  clam'  the  wa'. 
She  clam'  the  wa'  up  after  him ; 
Hosen  nor  shoon  upon  her  feet, 
She  had  na  time  to  put  them  on. 

"'Is  there  ony  room  at  your  head,  Saunders? 
Is  there  ony  room  at  your  feet? 
Or  ony  room  at  your  side,  Saunders, 
Where  fain,  fain  I  wad  sleep  ?  ' " 

In  that  last  line  the  very  heart-strings  crack. 
She  is  to  be  pitied  far  more  than  Clerk  Saunders, 
lying  stark  with  the  cruel  wound  beneath  his 
side,  the  love-kisses  hardly  cold  yet  upon  his 
lips. 

It  may  be  said  that  the  books  of  which  I  have 
been  speaking  attain  to  the  highest  literary 
excellence  by  favour  of  simplicity  and  uncon- 
sciousness. Neither  the  German  nor  the  Scotsman 
considered  himself  an  artist.  The  Scot  sings  a 
successful  foray,  in  which  perhaps  he  was  engaged, 
and  he   sings   as  he   fought.     In  combat  he  did 


A  SHELF  IN  MY  BOOKCASE       193 

not  dream  of  putting  himself  in  a  heroic  position, 
or  of  flourishing  his  blade  in  a  manner  to  be 
admired.  A  thrust  of  a  lance  would  soon  have 
finished  him  if  he  had.  The  pious  German  is 
over-laden  with  grief,  or  touched  by  some  blessing 
into  sudden  thankfulness,  and  he  breaks  into  song 
as  he  laughs  from  gladness  or  groans  from  pain. 
This  directness  and  naturalness  give  Scottish 
ballad  and  German  hymn  their  highest  charm. 
The  poetic  gold,  if  rough  and  unpolished,  and 
with  no  elaborate  devices  carved  upon  it,  is  free 
at  least  from  the  alloy  of  conceit  and  simulation. 
Modern  writers  might,  with  benefit  to  themselves, 
barter  something  of  their  finish  and  dexterity  for 
that  pure  innocence  of  nature,  and  childlike 
simplicity  and  fearlessness,  full  of  its  own  emotion, 
and  unthinking  of  others  or  of  their  opinions, 
which  characterise  these  old  writings. 

The  eighteenth  century  must  ever  remain  the 
most  brilliant  and  interesting  period  of  English 
literary  history.  It  is  interesting  not  only  on 
account  of  its  splendour,  but  because  it  is  so  well 
known.  We  are  familiar  with  the  faces  of  its 
great  men  by  portraits,  and  with  the  events  of 
their  lives  by  innumerable  biographies.  Every 
reader  is  acquainted  with  Pope's  restless  jealousy, 
Goldsmith's  pitted  countenance  and  plum-coloured 
coat,  Johnson's  surly  manners  and  countless 
eccentricities,  and  with  the  tribe  of  poets  who 
lived  for  months  ignorant  of  clean  linen,  who 
were  hunted  by  bailiffs,  who  smelt  of  stale  punch, 
and  who  wrote  descriptions  of  the  feasts  of  the 
gods  in  twopenny  cook-shops.  Manners  and 
13 


194       A  SHELF  IN  MY  BOOKCASE 

modes  of  thought  had  greatly  changed  since  the 
century  before.  Macbeth,  in  silk  stockings  and 
scarlet  coat,  slew  King  Duncan,  and  the  pit 
admired  the  wild  force  occasionally  exhibited 
by  the  barbarian  Shakspeare.  In  those  days  the 
Muse  wore  patches,  and  sat  in  a  sumptuous 
boudoir,  and  her  worshippers  surrounded  her 
in  high-heeled  shoes,  ruffles,  and  powdered  wigs. 
When  the  poets  wished  to  paint  nature,  they 
described  Chloe  sitting  on  a  green  bank  watch- 
ing her  sheep,  or  sighing  when  Strephon  confessed 
his  flame.  And  yet,  with  all  this  apparent 
shallowness,  the  age  was  earnest  enough  in  its 
way.  It  was  a  good  hater.  It  was  filled  with 
relentless  literary  feuds.  Just  recall  the  lawless 
state  of  things  on  the  Scottish  Border  in  the 
olden  time — the  cattle-lifting,  the  house-burning, 
the  midnight  murders,  the  powerful  marauders, 
who,  safe  in  numerous  retainers  and  moated  keep, 
bade  defiance  to  law — recall  this  state  of  things, 
and  imagine  the  quarrels  and  raids  literary,  the 
weapons  satire  and  wit,  and  you  have  a  good  idea 
of  the  darker  aspect  of  the  time.  There  were 
literary  bravoes,  who  hired  themselves  to  assas- 
sinate reputations.  There  were  literary  reavers, 
who  laid  desolate  at  a  foray  a  whole  generation 
of  wits.  There  were  literary  duels,  fought  out 
in  grim  hate  to  the  very  death.  It  was  dangerous 
to  interfere  in  the  literary  melee.  Every  now  and 
then  a  fine  gentleman  was  run  through  with  a 
jest,  or  a  foolish  Maecenas  stabbed  to  the  heart 
with  an  epigram,  and  his  foolishness  settled  for 
ever. 


A  SHELF  IN  MY  BOOKCASE       195 

As  a  matter  of  course,  on  this  special  shelf  of 
books  will  be  found  Boswell's  "  Life  of  Johnson  " 
— a  work  in  our  literature  unique,  priceless. 
That  altogether  unvenerable  yet  profoundly 
venerating  Scottish  gentleman  —  that  queerest 
mixture  of  qualities,  of  force  and  weakness, 
blindness  and  insight,  vanity  and  solid  worth — 
has  written  the  finest  book  of  its  kind  which 
our  nation  possesses.  It  is  quite  impossible  to 
over-state  its  worth.  You  lift  it,  and  immediately 
the  intervening  years  disappear,  and  you  are  in 
the  presence  of  the  Doctor.  You  are  made  free 
of  the  last  century,  as  you  are  free  of  the  present. 
You  double  your  existence.  The  book  is  a  letter 
of  introduction  to  a  whole  knot  of  departed 
English  worthies.  In  virtue  of  Boswell's  labours, 
we  know  Johnson — the  central  man  of  his  time — 
better  than  Burke  did,  or  Reynolds, — far  better 
even  than  Boswell  did.  We  know  how  he  ex- 
pressed himself,  in  what  grooves  his  thoughts 
ran,  how  he  dressed,  how  he  ate,  drank,  and 
slept,  Boswell's  unconscious  art  is  wonderful, 
and  so  is  the  result  attained.  This  book  has 
arrested,  as  never  book  did  before,  time  and 
decay.  Bozzy  is  really  a  wizard :  he  makes  the 
sun  stand  still.  Till  his  work  is  done,  the  future 
stands  respectfully  aloof.  Out  of  ever-shifting 
time  he  has  made  fixed  and  permanent  certain 
years,  and  in  these  Johnson  talks  and  argues, 
while  Burke  listens,  and  Reynolds  takes  snuff, 
and  Goldsmith,  with  hollowed  hand,  whispers  a 
sly  remark  to  his  neighbour.  There  have  they 
sat,  these  ghosts,  for   seventy  years  now,  looked 


196      A  SHELF  IN  MY  BOOKCASE 

at  and  listened  to  by  the  passing  generations; 
and  there  they  still  sit,  the  one  voice  going  on  ! 
Smile  at  Boswell  as  we  may,  he  was  a  spiritual 
phenomenon  quite  as  rare  as  Johnson.  More 
than  most  he  deserves  our  gratitude.  Let  us 
hope  that  when  next  Heaven  sends  England  a 
man  like  Johnson,  a  companion  and  listener 
like  Boswell  will  be  provided.  The  Literary 
Club  sits  for  ever.  What  if  the  Mermaid  were 
in  like  eternal  session,  with  Shakspeare's  laughter 
ringing  through  the  fire  and  hail  of  wit ! 

By  the  strange  freak  of  chance  or  Itking,  the  next 
book  on  my  shelf  contains  the  poems  of  Ebenezer 
Elliott,  the  Corn  -  law  Rhymer.  This  volume, 
adorned  by  a  hideous  portrait  in  lithograph  of  the 
author,  I  can  well  remember  picking  up  at  a  book- 
stall for  a  few  pence  many  years  ago.  It  seems 
curious  to  me  that  this  man  is  not  in  these  days 
better  known.  A  more  singular  man  has  seldom 
existed — seldom  a  more  genuine.  His  first  busi- 
ness speculation  failed,  but  when  about  forty  he 
commenced  again,  and  this  time  fortune  made 
amends  for  her  former  ill-treatment.  His  ware- 
house was  a  small,  dingy  place,  filled  with  bars  of 
iron,  with  a  bust  of  Shakspeare  looking  down  on 
the  whole.  His  country  house  contained  busts  of 
Achilles,  Ajax,  and  Napoleon.  Here  is  a  poet  who 
earned  a  competence  as  an  iron-merchant ;  here  is 
a  monomaniac  on  the  Corn-laws,  who  loved  nature 
as  intensely  as  ever  did  Burns  or  Wordsworth. 
Here  is  a  John  Bright  uttering  himself  in  fiery  and 
melodious  verse — Apollo  with  iron-dust  on  his 
face,  wandering  among  the  Sheffield  knife-grinders ! 


A  SHELF  IN  MY  BOOKCASE       197 

If  you  wish  to  form  some  idea  of  the  fierce  discon- 
tent which  thirty  years  ago  existed  amongst  the 
working  men  of  England,  you  should  read  the  Corn- 
law  Rhymes.  The  Corn-laws  are  to  him  the  twelve 
plagues  of  Egypt  rolled  together.  On  account  of 
them,  he  denounces  his  country  as  the  Hebrew 
prophets  were  wont  to  denounce  Tyre  and  Sidon. 
His  rage  breaks  out  into  curses,  which  are  not 
forgiveness.  He  is  maddened  by  the  memory  of 
Peterloo.  Never,  perhaps,  was  a  sane  human 
being  so  tyrannised  over  by  a  single  idea. 

A  skeleton  was  found  on  one  of  the  Derbyshire 
hills.  Had  the  man  been  crossed  in  love  ?  had 
he  crept  up  there  to  die  in  presence  of  the  stars  ? 
"  Not  at  all,"  cries  Elliott ;  "  he  was  a  victim  of  the 
Corn-laws,  who  preferred  dying  on  the  mountain- 
top  to  receiving  parish  pay."  In  his  wild  poem  all 
the  evil  kings  in  Hades  descend  from  their  thrones 
when  King  George  enters.  They  only  let  slip  the 
dogs  of  war ;  he  taxed  the  people's  bread.  "  Sleep 
on,  proud  Britoness  ! "  he  exclaims  over  a  woman 
at  rest  in  the  grave  she  had  purchased.  In  one  of 
his  articles  in  Taifs  Magazine^  he  seriously  pro- 
posed that  tragedies  should  be  written  showing  the 
evils  of  the  Corn-laws,  and  that  on  a  given  night 
they  should  be  performed  in  every  theatre  of  the 
kingdom,  so  that  the  nation  might,  by  the  speedi- 
est possible  process,  be  converted  to  the  gospel  of 
Free-trade.  In  his  eyes  the  Corn-laws  had  gathered 
into  their  black  bosoms  every  human  wrong; 
repeal  them,  and  lo  !  the  new  heavens  and  the  new 
earth  !  A  poor  and  shallow  theory  of  the  universe, 
you  will  say ;   but  it  is  astonishing  what  poetry  he 


igS      A  SHELF  IN  MY  BOOKCASE 

contrives  to  extract  out  of  it.  It  is  hardly  possible, 
without  quotation,  to  give  an  idea  of  the  rage  and 
fury  which  pervade  these  poems.  He  curses  his 
political  opponents  with  his  whole  heart  and  soul. 
He  pillories  them,  and  pelts  them  with  dead  cats 
and  rotten  eggs.  The  earnestness  of  his  mood  has 
a  certain  terror  in  it  for  meek  and  quiet  people. 
His  poems  are  of  the  angriest,  but  their  anger  is 
not  altogether  undivine.  His  scorn  blisters  and 
scalds,  his  sarcasm  flays ;  but  then  outside  nature 
is  constantly  touching  him  with  a  summer  breeze 
or  a  branch  of  pink  and  white  apple  blossom,  and 
his  mood  becomes  tenderness  itself.  He  is  far 
from  being  lachrymose ;  and  when  he  is  pathetic, 
he  affects  one  as  when  a  strong  man  sobs.  His 
anger  is  not  nearly  so  frightful  as  his  tears. 

I  cannot  understand  why  Elliott  is  so  little  read. 
Other  names  not  particularly  remarkable  I  meet  in 
the  current  reviews — his  never.  His  book  stands 
on  my  shelf,  but  on  no  other  have  I  seen  it.  This 
I  think  strange,  because,  apart  from  the  intrinsic 
value  of  his  verse  as  verse,  it  has  an  historical  value. 
Evil  times,  and  embittered  feelings,  now  happily 
passed  away,  are  preserved  in  his  books,  like 
Pompeii  and  Herculaneum  in  Vesuvian  lava.  He 
was  a  poet  of  the  poor,  but  in  a  quite  peculiar  sense. 
Burns,  Crabbe,  Wordsworth,  were  poets  of  the 
poor,  but  mainly  of  the  peasant  poor.  Elliott 
is  the  poet  of  English  artisans — men  who  read 
newspapers  and  books,  who  are  members  of  me- 
chanics' institutes,  who  attend  debating  societies, 
who  discuss  political  measures  and  political  men,  who 
are  tormented  by  ideas — a  very  different  kind  of 


A  SHELF  IN  MY  BOOKCASE       199 

persons  altogether.  It  is  easier  to  find  poetry  be- 
neath the  blowing  hawthorn  than  beneath  the  plumes 
of  factory  or  furnace  smoke.  In  such  uninviting 
atmospheres  Ebenezer  Elliott  found  his  ;  and  I  am 
amazed  that  the  world  does  not  hold  it  in  greater 
regard,  if  for  nothing  else  than  for  its  singularity. 

There  is  many  another  book  on  my  shelf  on 
which  I  might  dilate,  but  this  gossiping  must  be 
drawn  to  a  close.  When  I  began,  the  wind  was 
bending  the  trees,  and  the  rain  came  against  the 
window  in  quick,  petulant  dashes.  For  hours 
now,  wind  and  rain  have  ceased,  the  trees  are 
motionless,  the  garden  walk  is  dry.  The  early 
light  of  wintry  sunset  is  falling  across  my  paper, 
and,  as  I  look  up,  the  white  Dante  opposite  is 
dipped  in  tender  rose.  Less  stern  he  looks,  but 
not  less  sad,  than  he  did  in  the  morning.  The  sky 
is  clear,  and  an  arm  of  bleak  pink  vapour  stretches 
up  into  its  depths.  The  air  is  cold  with  frost,  and 
the  rain  which  those  dark  clouds  in  the  east  hold 
will  fall  during  the  night  in  silent,  feathery  flakes. 
When  I  wake  to-morrow,  the  world  will  be  changed, 
frosty  forests  will  cover  my  bedroom  panes,  the 
tree  branches  will  be  furred  with  snows;  and  to 
the  crumbs  which  it  is  my  daily  custom  to  sprinkle 
on  the  shrubbery  walk  will  come  the  lineal  descend- 
ant of  the  charitable  redbreast  that  covered  up  with 
leaves  the  sleeping  Children  in  the  Wood. 


GEOFFREY  CHAUCER. 

CHAUCER  is  admitted  on  all  hands  to  be  a 
great  poet,  but,  by  the  general  public  at 
least,  he  is  not  frequently  read.  He  is  like  a 
cardinal  virtue,  a  good  deal  talked  about,  a 
good  deal  praised,  honoured  by  a  vast  amount 
of  distant  admiration,  but  with  little  practical 
acquaintance.  And  for  this  there  are  many 
and  obvious  reasons.  He  is  an  ancient,  and  the 
rich  old  mahogany  is  neglected  for  the  new  and 
glittering  veneer.  He  is  occasionally  gross ; 
often  tedious  and  obscure;  he  frequently  leaves 
a  couple  of  lovers  to  cite  the  opinions  of  Greek 
and  Roman  authors;  and  practice  and  patience 
are  required  to  melt  the  frost  of  his  orthography, 
and  let  his  music  flow  freely.  In  the  conduct 
of  his  stories  he  is  garrulous,  homely,  and  slow- 
paced.  He  wrote  in  a  leisurely  world,  when 
there  was  plenty  of  time  for  writing  and  reading ; 
long  before  the  advent  of  the  printer's  devil  or 
of  Mr.  Mudie.  There  is  little  of  the  lyrical 
element  in  him.  He  does  not  dazzle  by 
sentences.  He  is  not  quotable.  He  does  not 
shine   in   extracts   so  much  as   in  entire   poems. 


GEOFFREY  CHAUCER  201 

There  is  a  pleasant  equality  about  his  writing: 
he  advances  through  a  story  at  an  even  pace, 
glancing  round  him  on  everything  with  curious, 
humorous  eyes,  and  having  his  say  about  every- 
thing. He  is  the  prince  of  story-tellers,  and 
however  much  he  may  move  others,  he  is  not 
moved  himself.  His  mood  is  so  kindly  that  he 
seems  always  to  have  written  after  dinner,  or 
after  hearing  good  news — that  he  had  received 
from  the  king  another  grant  of  wine,  for  instance 
— and  he  discourses  of  love  and  lovers'  raptures, 
and  the  disappointments  of  life,  half  -  sportively, 
half- sadly,  like  one  who  has  passed  through  all, 
felt  the  sweetness  and  the  bitterness  of  it,  and 
been  able  to  strike  a  balance.  He  had  his  share 
of  crosses  and  misfortunes,  but  his  was  a  nature 
which  time  and  sorrow  could  only  mellow  and 
sweeten;  and  for  all  that  had  come  and  gone, 
he  loved  his  "books  clothed  in  black  and  red," 
to  sit  at  good  men's  feasts ;  and  if  silent  at  table, 
as  the  Countess  of  Pembroke  reported,  the 
"stain  upon  his   lip  was  wine." 

Chaucer's  face  is  to  his  writings  the  best  preface 
and  commentary ;  it  is  contented-looking,  like 
one  familiar  with  pleasant  thoughts,  shy  and  self- 
contained  somewhat,  as  if  he  preferred  his  own 
company  to  the  noisy  and  rude  companionship 
of  his  fellows;  and  the  outlines  are  bland, 
fleshy,  voluptuous,  as  of  one  who  had  a  keen 
relish  for  the  pleasures  that  leave  no  bitter 
traces.  Tears  and  mental  trouble,  and  the 
agonies  of  doubt,  you  cannot  think  of  in  con- 
nection with  it;   laughter  is  sheathed   in   it,  the 


202  GEOFFREY  CHAUCER 

light  of  a  smile  is  diffused  over  it.  In  face  and 
turn  of  genius  he  differs  in  every  respect  from 
his  successor,  Spenser;  and  in  truth,  in  Chaucer 
and  Spenser  we  see  the  fountains  of  the  two 
main  streams  of  British  song :  the  one  flowing 
through  the  drama  and  the  humorous  narrative, 
the  other  through  the  epic  and  the  didactic 
poem.  Chaucer  rooted  himself  firmly  in  fact, 
and  looked  out  upon  the  world  in  a  half- 
humorous,  half-melancholy  mood.  Spenser  had 
but  little  knowledge  of  men  as  men ;  the  cardinal 
virtues  were  the  personages  he  was  acquainted 
with ;  in  everything  he  was  "  high  fantastical,"  and^ 
as  a  consequence,  he  exhibits  neither  humour 
nor  pathos.  Chaucer  was  thoroughly  national ;  his 
characters,  place  them  where  he  may — in  Thebes 
or  Tartary — are  natives  of  one  or  other  of  the 
English  shires. 

Spenser's  genius  was  countryless  as  Ariel; 
search  ever  so  diligently,  you  will  not  find  an 
English  daisy  in  all  his  enchanted  forests. 
Chaucer  was  tolerant  of  everything,  the  vices  not 
excepted;  morally  speaking,  an  easy-going  man, 
he  took  the  world  as  it  came,  and  did  not  fancy 
himself  a  whit  better  than  his  fellows.  Spenser 
was  a  Platonist,  and  fed  his  grave  spirit  on  high 
speculations  and  moralities.  Severe  and  chival- 
rous, dreaming  of  things  to  come,  unsuppled 
by  luxury,  unenslaved  by  passion,  somewhat 
scornful  and  self-sustained,  it  needed  but  a 
tyrannous  king,  an  electrical  political  atmosphere, 
and  a  deeper  interest  in  theology,  to  make  a 
Puritan  of  him,  as  these  things  made  a  Puritan 


GEOFFREY  CHAUCER  20^ 

of  Milton.  The  differences  between  Chaucer 
and  Spenser  are  seen  at  a  glance  in  their  portraits. 
Chaucer's  face  is  round,  good-humoured,  con- 
stitutionally pensive,  and  thoughtful.  You  see 
in  it  that  he  has  often  been  amused,  and  that 
he  may  easily  be  amused  again.  Spenser's  is 
of  sharper  and  keener  feature,  disdainful,  and 
breathing  that  severity  which  appertains  to  so 
many  of  the  Elizabethan  men.  A  fourteenth- 
century  child,  with  delicate  prescience,  would 
have  asked  Chaucer  to  assist  her  in  a  strait, 
and  would  not  have  been  disappointed.  A 
sixteenth-century  child  in  like  circumstances 
would  have  shrunk  from  drawing  on  herself  the 
regards  of  the  sterner-looking  man.  We  can 
trace  the  descent  of  the  Chaucerian  face  and 
genius  in  Shakspeare  and  Scott,  of  the  Spenserian 
in  Milton  and  Wordsworth.  In  our  own  day, 
Mr.  Browning  takes  after  Chaucer,  Mr.  Tennyson 
takes  after  Spenser. 

Hazlitt,  writing  of  the  four  great  English  poets, 
tells  us  Chaucer's  characteristic  is  intensity, 
Spenser's  remoteness,  Milton's  sublimity,  and 
Shakspeare's  everything.  The  sentence  is  epi- 
grammatic and  memorable  enough;  but,  so  far 
as  Chaucer  is  concerned,  it  requires  a  little 
explanation.  He  is  not  intense,  for  instance, 
as  Byron  is  intense,  or  as  Wordsworth  is  intense. 
He  does  not  see  man  like  the  one,  nor  nature  like 
the  other.  He  would  not  have  cared  much  for 
either  of  these  poets.  And  yet,  so  far  as  straight- 
forwardness in  dealing  with  a  subject,  and  com- 
plete though  quiet  realisation  of  it  goes  to  make 


204  GEOFFREY  CHAUCER 

up  intensity  of  poetic  mood,  Chaucer  amply 
justifies  his  critic.  There  is  no  wastefulness  or 
explosiveness  about  the  old  writer.  He  does 
his  work  silently,  and  with  no  appearance  of 
effort.  His  poetry  shines  upon  us  like  a  May 
morning,  but  the  streak  over  the  eastern  hill, 
the  dew  on  the  grass,  the  wind  that  bathes  the 
brows  of  the  wayfarer,  are  not  there  by  hap- 
hazard; they  are  the  results  of  occult  forces,  a 
whole  solar  system  has  had  a  hand  in  their  pro- 
duction. From  the  apparent  ease  with  which 
an  artist  works,  one  does  not  readily  give  him 
credit  for  the  mental  force  he  is  continuously 
puttmg  forth.  To  many  people  a  chaotic 
"Festus"  is  more  wonderful  than  a  rounded, 
melodious  "Princess."  The  load  which  a  strong 
man  bears  gracefully  does  not  seem  so  heavy  as 
the  load  which  the  weaker  man  staggers  under. 
Incompletion  is  force  fighting;  completion  is 
force  quiescent,  its  work  done.  Nature's  forces 
are  patent  enough  in  some  scarred  volcanic  moon 
in  which  no  creature  can  breathe ;  only  the  sage, 
in  some  soft  green  earth,  can  discover  the  same 
forces  reft  of  fierceness  and  terror,  and  translated 
into  sunshine  and  falling  dew,  and  the  rainbow 
gleaming  on  the  shower.  It  is  somewhat  in  this 
way  that  the  propriety  of  Hazlitt's  criticism  is  to 
be  vindicated.  Chaucer  is  the  most  simple, 
natural,  and  homely  of  our  poets,  and  whatever 
he  attempts  he  does  thoroughly.  The  Wife  of 
Bath  is  so  distinctly  limned  that  she  could  sit  for 
her  portrait.  You  can  count  the  embroidered 
sprigs  in  the  jerkin  of  the  squire.     You  hear  the 


GEOFFREY  CHAUCER  205 

pilgrims  laugh  as  they  ride  to  Canterbury.  The 
whole  thing  is  admirably  lifelike  and  seems  easy, 
and  in  the  seeming  easiness  we  are  apt  to  forget 
the  imaginative  sympathy  which  bodies  forth  the 
characters,  and  the  joy  and  sorrow  from  which 
that  sympathy  has  drawn  nurture.  Unseen  by 
us  the  ore  has  been  dug,  and  smelted  in  secret 
furnaces,  and  when  it  is  poured  into  perfect 
moulds,  we  are  apt  to  forget  by  what  potency  the 
whole  thing  has  been  brought  about. 

And,  with  his  noticing  eyes,  into  what  a  brilliant, 
many-tinted  world  was  Chaucer  born.  In  his  day 
life  had  a  certain  breadth,  colour,  and  picturesque- 
ness  which  it  does  not  possess  now.  It  wore  a 
braver  dress,  and  flaunted  more  in  the  sun.  Five 
centuries  effect  a  great  change  on  manners.  A 
man  may  nowadays,  and  without  the  slightest 
suspicion  of  the  fact,  brush  clothes  with  half  the 
English  peerage  on  a  sunny  afternoon  in  Pall  Mall. 
Then  it  was  quite  different.  The  fourteenth 
century  loved  magnificence  and  show.  Great 
lords  kept  princely  state  in  the  country ;  and  when 
they  came  abroad,  what  a  retinue,  what  waving  of 
plumes,  and  shaking  of  banners,  and  glittering 
of  rich  dresses !  Religion  was  picturesque,  with 
dignitaries  and  cathedrals,  and  fuming  incense, 
and  the  Host  carried  through  the  streets.  The 
franklin  kept  open  house,  the  city  merchant  feasted 
kings,  the  outlaw  roasted  his  venison  beneath  the 
greenwood  tree.  There  was  a  gallant  monarch  and 
a  gallant  court.  The  eyes  of  the  Countess  of 
Salisbury  shed  influence ;  Maid  Marian  laughed  in 
Sherwood.    London  is  already  a  considerable  place, 


u2o6  GEOFFREY  CHAUCER 

numbering,  perhaps,  two  hundred  thousand  inhabit- 
ants, the  houses  clustering  close  and  high  along 
the  river  banks ;  and  on  the  beautiful  April  nights 
the  nightingales  are  singing  round  the  suburban 
villages  of  Strand,  Holborn,  and  Charing.  It  is 
rich  withal ;  for  after  the  battle  of  Poitiers,  Harry 
Picard,  wine-merchant  and  Lord  Mayor,  entertained 
in  the  city  four  kings — to  wit,  Edward,  King  of 
England,  John,  King  of  France,  David,  King  of 
Scotland,  and  the  King  of  Cyprus — and  the  last- 
named  potentate,  slightly  heated  with  Harry's  wine, 
engaged  him  at  dice,  and  being  nearly  ruined 
thereby,  the  honest  wine-merchant  returned  the 
poor  king  his  money,  which  was  received  with  all 
thankfulness.  There  is  great  stir  on  a  summer's 
.morning  in  that  Warwickshire  castle — pawing  of 
horses,  tossing  of  bridles,  clanking  of  spurs.  The 
old  lord  climbs  at  last  into  his  saddle,  and  rides 
off  to  court,  his  favourite  falcon  on  his  wrist,  four 
squires  in  immediate  attendance  carrying  his  arms, 
and  behind  these  stretches  a  merry  cavalcade,  on 
which  the  chestnuts  shed  their  milky  blossoms. 
In  the  absence  of  the  old  peer,  young  Hopeful 
spends  his  time  as  befits  his  rank  and  expectations. 
He  grooms  his  steed,  plays  with  his  hawks,  feeds 
his  hounds,  and  labours  diligently  to  acquire 
grace  and  dexterity  in  the  use  of  arms.  At  noon 
the  portcullis  is  lowered,  and  out  shoots  a  brilliant 
array  of  ladies  and  gentlemen,  and  falconers  with 
hawks.  They  bend  their  course  to  the  river,  over 
which  a  rainbow  is  rising  from  a  shower.  Yonder 
young  lady  is  laughing  at  our  stripling  squire,  who 
seems    half-angry,    half-pleased:    they  are  lovers, 


GEOFFREY  CHAUCER  207 

depend  upon  it.  A  few  years,  and  the  merry 
beauty  will  have  become  a  noble,  gracious  woman, 
and  the  young  fellow,  sitting  by  a  watch-fire  on 
the  eve  of  Cressy,  will  wonder  if  she  is  thinking 
of  him.  But  the  river  is  already  reached.  Up 
flies  the  alarmed  heron,  his  long  blue  legs  trailing 
behind  him ;  a  hawk  is  let  loose ;  the  young  lady's 
laugh  has  ceased,  as  with  gloved  hand  shading 
fair  forehead  and  sweet  grey  eye,  she  watches 
hawk  and  heron  lessening  in  heaven. 

The  Crusades  are  now  over,  but  the  religious 
fervour  which  inspired  them  lingered  behind;  so 
that,  even  in  Chaucer's  day,  Christian  kings,  when 
their  consciences  were  oppressed  by  a  crime 
more  than  usually  weighty,  talked  of  making  an 
effort  before  they  died  to  wrest  Jerusalem  and  the 
sepulchre  of  Christ  from  the  grasp  of  the  infidel. 
England  had  at  this  time  several  holy  shrines,  the 
most  famous  being  that  of  Thomas  h  Becket  at 
Canterbury,  which  attracted  crowds  of  pilgrims. 
The  devout  travelled  in  large  companies;  and,  in 
the  May  mornings,  a  merry  sight  it  was,  as,  with 
infinite  clatter  and  merriment,  with  bells,  minstrels, 
and  buifoons,  they  passed  through  thorp  and 
village,  bound  for  the  tomb  of  St.  Thomas.  The 
pageant  of  events,  which  seems  enchantment  when 
chronicled  by  Froissart's  splendid  pen,  was  to 
Chaucer  contemporaneous  incident :  the  chivalric 
richness  was  the  familiar  and  everyday  dress  of 
his  time.  Into  this  princely  element  he  was 
endued,  and  he  saw  every  side  of  it — the  frieze 
■2LS  well  as  the  cloth  of  gold.  In  the  Canterbury 
Tales    the    fourteenth   century   murmurs,  as   the 


2o8  GEOFFREY  CHAUCER 

sea   murmurs    in   the   pink-mouthed   shells   upon 
our  mantelpieces. 

Of  his  life  we  do  not  know  much.  In  his 
youth  he  studied  law  and  disliked  it — a  circum- 
stance common  enough  in  the  lives  of  men  of 
letters,  from  his  time  to  that  of  Shirley  Brooks. 
How  he  lived,  what  he  did,  when  he  was  a  student, 
we  are  unable  to  discover.  Only  for  a  moment  is  the 
curtain  lifted,  and  we  behold,  in  the  old,  quaint- 
peaked  and  gabled  Fleet  Street  of  that  day,  Chaucer 
thrashing  a  Franciscan  friar  (friar's  offence  un- 
known), for  which  amusement  he  was  next  morning 
fined  two  shillings.  History  has  preserved  this 
for  us,  but  has  forgotten  all  the  rest  of  his  early 
life  and  the  chronology  of  all  his  poems.  What 
curious  flies  are  sometimes  found  in  the  historic 
amber!  On  Chaucer's  own  authority,  we  know 
that  he  served  under  Edward  iii.  in  his  French 
campaign,  and  that  he  for  some  time  lay  in  a 
French  prison.  On  his  return  from  captivity  he 
married ;  he  was  a  valet  in  the  king's  household ; 
he  was  sent  on  an  embassy  to  Genoa,  and  is 
supposed  to  have  visited  Petrarch,  then  resident 
at  Padua,  and  to  have  heard  from  his  lips  the 
story  of  "  Griselda  " — a  tradition  which  one  would 
like  to  believe.  He  had  his  share  of  the  sweets 
and  the  bitters  of  life.  He  enjoyed  offices  and 
gifts  of  wine,  and  he  felt  the  pangs  of  poverty 
and  the  sickness  of  hope  deferred.  He  was 
comptroller  of  the  customs  for  wools ;  from  which 
post  he  was  dismissed — why,  we  know  not, 
although  one  cannot  help  remembering  that 
Edward  made  the  writing  out  of  the  accounts  in 


GEOFFREY  CHAUCER  209 

Chaucer's  own  hand  the  condition  of  his  holding 
office,  and  having  one's  surmises.  Foreign  coun- 
tries, strange  manners,  meetings  with  celebrated 
men,  love  of  wife  and  children,  and  their  deaths, 
freedom  and  captivity,  the  light  of  a  king's  smile 
and  its  withdrawal,  furnished  ample  matter  of 
meditation  to  his  humane  and  thoughtful  spirit. 
In  his  youth  he  wrote  allegories,  full  of  ladies 
and  knights  dwelling  in  impossible  forests,  and 
nursing  impossible  passions,  but,  in  his  declining 
years,  when  fortune  had  done  all  it  could  for  him 
and  all  it  could  against  him,  he  discarded  these 
dreams,  and  betook  himself  to  the  actual  stuff  of 
human  nature.  Instead  of  the  Romance  of  the 
Rose,  we  have  the  Canterbury  Tales,  and  the 
first  great  English  poet.  One  likes  to  fancy 
Chaucer  in  his  declining  days,  living  at  Woodstock, 
with  his  books  about  him,  and  where  he  could 
watch  the  daisies  opening  themselves  at  sunrise, 
shutting  themselves  at  sunset,  and  composing  his 
wonderful  stories  in  which  the  fourteenth  century 
lives — riding  to  battle  in  iron  gear,  hawking  in 
embroidered  jerkin  and  waving  plume,  sitting  in 
rich  and  solemn  feast,  the  monarch  on  the  dais. 

Chaucer's  early  poems  have  music  and  fancy, 
they  are  full  of  a  natural  delight  in  sunshine 
and  the  greenness  of  foliage,  but  they  have 
little  human  interest.  They  are  allegories  for 
the  most  part,  more  or  less  satisfactorily  wrought 
out.  The  allegorical  turn  of  thought,  the  delight 
in  pageantry,  the  "clothing  upon"  of  abstrac- 
tions with  human  forms,  flowered  originally  out 
of  chivalry  and  the  feudal  times.  Chaucer  im- 
14 


210  GEOFFREY  CHAUCER 

ported  it  from  the  French,  and  was  proud  of  it 
in  his  early  poems,  as  a  young  fellow  of  that 
day  might  be  proud  of  his  horse  furniture,  his 
attire,  his  waving  plume.  And  the  poetic  fashion 
thus  set  retained  its  vitality  for  a  long  while — 
indeed,  it  was  only  thoroughly  made  an  end  of 
by  the  French  Revolution,  which  made  an  end 
of  so  much  else.  About  the  last  trace  of  its 
influence  is  to  be  found  in  Burns'  sentimental 
correspondence  with  Mrs.  M'Lehose,  in  which 
the  lady  is  addressed  as  Clarinda,  and  the  poet 
signs  himself  Sylvander.  It  was  at  best  a  mere 
beautiful  gauze  screen  drawn  between  the  poet 
and  nature,  and  passion  put  his  foot  through  it 
at  once.  After  Chaucer's  youth  was  over,  he 
discarded  somewhat  scornfully  these  abstractions 
and  shows  of  things.  The  "Flower  and  the 
Leaf"  is  a  beautifully  tinted  dream;  the  Canter- 
bury Tales  are  as  real  as  anything  in  Shakspeare 
or  Burns. 

The  ladies  in  the  earlier  poems  dwell  in 
forests,  and  wear  coronals  on  their  heads ;  the 
people  in  the  Tales  are  engaged  in  the  actual 
concerns  of  life,  and  you  can  see  the  splashes 
of  mire  upon  their  clothes.  The  separate  poems 
which  make  up  the  Canterbury  Tales  were 
probably  written  at  different  periods,  after  youth 
was  gone,  and  when  he  had  fallen  out  of  love 
with  florid  imagery  and  allegorical  conceits;  and 
we  can  fancy  him,  perhaps  fallen  on  evil  days 
and  in  retirement,  anxious  to  gather  up  these 
loose  efforts  into  one  consummate  whole.  If 
of  his  flowers  he  would  make  a  bouquet  for  pos- 


GEOFFREY  CHAUCER  211 

terity,  it  was  of  course  necessary  to  procure  a 
string  to  tie  them  together.  These  necessities, 
which  ruin  other  men,  are  the  fortunate  chances 
of  great  poets.  Then  it  was  that  the  idea  arose 
of  a  meeting  of  pilgrims  at  the  Tabard  in  South- 
wark,  of  their  riding  to  Canterbury,  and  of  the 
different  personages  relating  stories  to  beguile 
the  tedium  of  the  journey.  The  notion  was  a 
happy  one,  and  the  execution  is  superb.  In 
those  days,  as  we  know,  pilgrimages  were  of 
frequent  occurrence;  and  in  the  motley  group 
that  congregated  on  such  occasions,  the  painter 
of  character  had  full  scope.  All  conditions  of 
people  are  comprised  in  the  noisy  band  issuing 
from  the  courtyard  of  the  Southwark  Inn  on 
that  May  morning  in  the  fourteenth  century. 
Let  us  go  nearer  and  have  a  look  at  them ! 

There  is  a  grave  and  gentle  knight,  who  has 
fought  in  many  wars,  and  who  has  many  a  time 
hurled  his  adversary  down  in  tournament  before 
the  eyes  of  all  the  ladies  there,  and  who  has 
taken  the  place  of  honour  at  many  a  mighty 
feast.  There,  riding  beside  him,  is  a  blooming 
squire,  his  son,  fresh  as  the  month  of  May,  sing- 
ing day  and  night  from  very  gladness  of  heart 
—  an  impetuous  young  fellow,  who  is  looking 
forward  to  the  time  when  he  will  flesh  his  maiden 
sword  and  shout  his  first  warcry  in  a  stricken 
field.  There  is  an  abbot  mounted  on  a  brown 
steed.  He  is  middle-aged ;  his  bald  crown  shines 
like  glass,  and  his  face  looks  as  if  it  were  anointed 
with  oil.  He  has  been  a  valiant  trencher-man 
at  many  a  well-furnished  feast.     Above  all  things, 


212  GEOFFREY  CHAUCER 

he  loves  hunting;  and  when  he  rides,  men  can 
hear  his  bridle  ringing  in  the  whistling  wind  loud 
and  clear  as  a  chapel  bell.  There  is  a  thin,  ill- 
conditioned  clerk,  perched  perilously  on  a  steed 
as  thin  and  ill-conditioned  as  himself.  He  will 
never  be  rich,  I  fear.  He  is  a  great  student, 
and  would  rather  have  a  few  books  bound  in 
black  and  red  hanging  above  his  bed  than  be 
sheriff  of  the  county.  There  is  a  prioress  so 
gentle  and  tender-hearted,  that  she  weeps  if  she 
hears  the  whimper  of  a  beaten  hound,  or  sees  a 
mouse  caught  in  a  trap.  There  rides  the  laugh- 
ing Wife  of  Bath,  bold-faced  and  fair.  She  is 
an  adept  in  love-matters.  Five  husbands  already 
"she  has  fried  in  their  own  grease"  till  they 
were  glad  to  get  into  their  graves  to  escape  the 
scourge  of  her  tongue — Heaven  rest  their  souls, 
and  swiftly  send  a  sixth!  She  wears  a  hat  large 
as  a  targe  or  buckler,  brings  the  artillery  of  her 
eyes  to  bear  on  the  young  squire,  and  jokes  him 
about  his  sweetheart.  Beside  her  is  a  worthy 
parson,  who  delivers  faithfully  the  message  of 
his  Master.  Although  he  is  poor,  he  gives  away 
the  half  of  his  tithes  in  charity.  His  parish  is 
waste  and  wide,  yet  if  sickness  or  misfortune 
should  befall  one  of  his  flock,  he  rides  in  spite  of 
wind,  or  rain,  or  thunder,  to  administer  con- 
solation. 

Among  the  crowd  rides  a  rich  franklin,  who  sits 
in  the  Guildhall  on  the  dais.  He  is  profuse  and 
hospitable  as  summer.  All  day  his  table  stands 
in  the  hall  covered  with  meats  and  drinks,  and 
every  one  who  enters  is  welcome.     There  is  a 


GEOFFREY  CHAUCER  213 

ship-man,  whose  beard  has  been  shaken  by  many 
a  tempest,  whose  cheek  knows  the  kiss  of  the 
salt  sea  spray;  a  merchant,  with  a  grave  look, 
clean  and  neat  in  his  attire,  and  with  plenty  of 
gold  in  his  purse.  There  is  a  doctor  of  physic, 
who  has  killed  more  men  than  the  knight,  talk- 
ing to  a  clerk  of  laws.  There  is  a  merry  friar, 
a  lover  of  good  cheer;  and  when  seated  in  a 
tavern  among  his  companions,  singing  songs  it 
would  be  scarcely  decorous  to  repeat,  you  may 
see  his  eyes  twinkling  in  his  head  for  joy,  like 
stars  on  a  frosty  night.  Beside  him  is  a  ruby- 
faced  Sompnour,  whose  breath  stinks  of  garlic 
and  onions ;  who  is  ever  roaring  for  wine — strong 
wine,  wine  red  as  blood;  and  when  drunk,  he 
disdains  English  —  nothing  but  Latin  will  serve 
his  turn.  In  front  of  all  is  a  miller,  who  has 
been  drinking  over-night,  and  is  now  but  indiffer- 
ently sober.  There  is  not  a  door  in  the  country 
that  he  cannot  break  by  running  at  it  with  his 
head.  The  pilgrims  are  all  ready,  the  host  gives 
the  word,  and  they  defile  through  the  arch.  The 
miller  blows  his  bagpipes  as  they  issue  from  the 
town ;  and  away  they  ride  to  Canterbury,  through 
the  boon  sunshine,  and  between  the  white  hedges 
of  the  English  May. 

Had  Chaucer  spent  his  whole  life  in  seeking, 
he  could  not  have  selected  a  better  contemporary 
circumstance  for  securing  variety  of  character 
than  a  pilgrimage  to  Canterbury.  It  comprises 
as  we  see,  all  kinds  and  conditions  of  people. 
It  is  the  fourteenth-century  England  in  little. 
In   our  time,  the  only  thing  that  could  match  it 


214  GEOFFREY  CHAUCER 

in  this  respect  is  Epsom  down  on  the  great 
race  day.  But  then  Epsom  down  is  too  unwieldy ; 
the  crowd  is  too  great,  and  it  does  not  cohere,  save 
for  the  few  seconds  when  the  gay  jackets  are 
streaming  towards  the  winning-post.  The  Pro- 
logue to  the  Canterbury  Tales,  in  which  we 
make  the  acquaintance  of  the  pilgrims,  is  the 
ripest,  most  genial,  and  humorous — altogether 
the  most  masterly  thing  which  Chaucer  has  left 
us.  In  its  own  way,  and  within  its  own  limits,  it 
is  the  most  wonderful  thing  in  the  language. 

The  people  we  read  about  are  as  real  as  the 
people  we  brush  clothes  with  in  the  street — nay, 
much  more  real,  for  we  not  only  see  their  faces, 
and  the  fashion  and  texture  of  their  garments, 
we  know  also  what  they  think,  how  they  express 
themselves,  and  with  what  eyes  they  look  out  on 
the  world.  Chaucer's  art  in  this  prologue  is 
simple  perfection.  He  indulges  in  no  irrelevant 
description ;  he  airs  no  fine  sentiments ;  he  takes 
no  special  pains  as  to  style  or  poetic  ornament; 
but  every  careless  touch  tells — every  sly  line 
reveals  character;  the  description  of  each  man's 
horse-furniture  and  array  reads  like  a  memoir. 
The  nun's  pretty  oath  bewrays  her.  We  see 
the  bold,  well  favoured  countenance  of  the  Wife 
of  Bath  beneath  her  hat,  as  "  broad  as  a  buckler 
or  a  targe  " ;  and  the  horse  of  the  clerk,  "  as  lean 
as  is  a  rake,"  tells  tales  of  his  master's  cheer. 
Our  modern  dress  is  worthless  as  an  indication 
of  the  character,  or  even  of  the  social  rank,  of 
the  wearer;  in  the  olden  time  it  was  significant 
of  personal  tastes   and   appetites,    of  profession, 


GEOFFREY  CHAUCER  215 

and  condition  of  life  generally.  See  how 
Chaucer  brings  out  a  character  by  touching 
merely  on  a  few  points  of  attire  and  personal 
appearance : 

"  I  saw  his  sleeves  were  purfil'd  at  the  hand 
With  fur,  and  that  the  finest  of  the  land  ; 
And  for  to  fasten  his  hood  under  his  chin 
He  had  of  gold  y'wrought  a  curious  pin. 
A  love-knot  in  the  greater  end  there  was ; 
His  head  was  bald,  and  shone  as  any  glass, 
And  eke  his  face  as  if  it  was  anoint." 

What  more  would  you  have?  You  could  not 
have  known  the  monk  better  if  you  had  lived  all 
your  life  in  the  monastery  with  him.  The  sleeves 
daintily  purfiled  with  fur  give  one  side  of  him, 
the  curious  pin  with  the  love-knot  another,  and 
the  shining  crown  and  face  complete  the  character 
and  the  picture.  The  sun  itself  could  not  photo- 
graph more  truly. 

On  their  way  the  pilgrims  tell  tales,  and  these 
are  as  various  as  their  relaters ;  in  fact,  the 
Prologue  is  the  soil  out  of  which  they  all  grow. 
Dramatic  propriety  is  everywhere  instinctively  pre- 
served. "  The  Knight's  Tale  "  is  noble,  splendid, 
and  chivalric  as  his  own  nature  j  the  tale  told 
by  the  Wife  of  Bath  is. exactly  what  one  would 
expect.  With  what  good  humour  the  rosy  sinner 
confesses  her  sins !  how  hilarious  she  is  in  her 
repentance  !  "  The  Miller's  Tale  "  is  coarse  and 
full-flavoured,  just  the  kind  of  thing  to  be  told 
by  a  rough,  humorous  fellow  who  is  hardly  yet 
sober.  And  here  it  may  be  said,  that  although  there 
is  a  good  deal  of  coarseness  in  the  Catiterbury 


2i6  -         GEOFFREY  CHAUCER 

Tales,  there  is  not  the  sUghtest  tinge  of  pruriency. 
There  is  such  a  single-heartedness  and  innocence 
in  Chaucer's  vulgarest  and  broadest  stories,  such 
a  keen  eye  for  humour,  and  such  a  hearty 
enjoyment  of  it,  and  at  the  same  time  such  an 
absence  of  any  delight  in  impurity  for  impurity's 
sake,  that  but  little  danger  can  arise  from  their 
perusal.  He  is  so  fond  of  fun  that  he  will  drink 
it  out  of  a  cup  that  is  only  indifferently  clean. 
He  writes  often  like  Fielding,  he  never  writes  as 
Smollett  sometimes  does.  These  stories,  ranging 
from  the  noble  romance  of  Palamon  and  Arcite, 
to  the  rude  intrigues  of  Clerk  Nicholas — the 
one  fitted  to  draw  tears  down  the  cheeks  of  ladies 
and  gentlemen,  the  other  to  convulse  with  laughter 
the  midriffs  of  illiterate  clowns — gives  one  an  idea 
of  the  astonishing  range  of  Chaucer's  powers. 

He  can  suit  himself  to  every  company,  make 
himself  at  home  in  every  circumstance  of  life; 
can  mingle  in  tournaments  where  beauty  is  leaning 
from  balconies,  and  the  knights,  with  spear  in 
rest,  wait  for  the  blast  of  the  trumpet;  and  he 
can  with  equal  ease  sit  with  a  couple  of  drunken 
friars  in  a  tavern  laughing  over  the  confessions 
they  hear,  and  singing  questionable  catches 
between  whiles.  Chaucer's  range  is  wide  as  that 
of  Shakspeare — if  we  omit  that  side  of  Shakspeare's 
mind  which  confronts  the  other  world,  and  out 
of  which  Hamlet  sprang — and  his  men  and 
women  are  even  more  real,  and  more  easily 
matched  in  the  living  and  breathing  world.  For 
in  Shakspeare's  characters,  as  in  his  language, 
there  is  surplusage,  superabundance ;  the  measure 


GEOFFREY  CHAUCER  217 

is  heaped  and  running  over.  From  his  sheer 
wealth  he  is  often  the  most  w/zdramatic  of  writers. 
He  is  so  frequently  greater  than  his  occasion, 
he  has  no  small  change  to  suit  emergencies, 
and  we  have  guineas  in  place  of  groats. 
Romeo  is  more  than  a  mortal  lover,  and  Mer- 
cutio  more  than  a  mortal  wit;  the  kings  in  the 
Shakspearian  world  are  more  kingly  than  earthly 
sovereigns;  Rosalind's  laughter  was  never  heard 
save  in  the  forest  of  Arden.  His  madmen  seem 
to  have  eaten  of  some  "  strange  root."  No  such 
boon  companion  as  Falstafif  ever  heard  chimes 
at  midnight.  His  very  clowns  are  transcendental, 
with  scraps  of  wisdom  springing  out  of  their 
foolishest  speech. 

Chaucer,  lacking  Shakspeare's  excess  and  pro- 
digality of  genius,  could  not  so  gloriously  err, 
and  his  creations  have  a  harder,  drier,  more 
realistic  look;  are  more  like  the  people  we 
hear  uttering  ordinary  Enghsh  speech,  and  see 
on  ordinary  country  roads  against  an  ordinary 
English  sky.  If  need  were,  any  one  of  them 
could  drive  pigs  to  market.  Chaucer's  char- 
acters are  individual  enough,  their  idiosyncrasies 
are  sharply  enough  defined,  but  they  are  to  some 
extent  literal  and  prosaic ;  they  are  of  the  "  earth, 
earthy";  out  of  his  imagination  no  Ariel  ever 
sprang,  no  half-human,  half-brutish  Caliban  ever 
crept.  He  does  not  effloresce  in  illustrations  and 
images,  the  flowers  do  not  hide  the  grass;  his 
pictures  are  masterpieces,  but  they  are  portraits, 
and  the  man  is  brought  out  by  a  multiplicity  of 
short    touches — caustic,    satirical,   and   matter    of 


2i8  GEOFFREY  CHAUCER 

fact.  His  poetry  may  be  said  to  resemble  an 
English  country  road,  on  which  passengers  of 
different  degrees  of  rank  are  continually  passing 
— now  knight,  now  boor,  now  abbot :  Spenser's, 
for  instance,  and  all  the  more  fanciful  styles,  to 
a  tapestry  on  which  a  whole  Olympus  has  been 
wrought.  The  figures  on  the  tapestry  are  much 
the  more  noble-looking,  it  is  true,  but  then  they 
are  dreams  and  phantoms,  whereas  the  people 
on  the  country  road  actually  exist. 

"The  Knight's  Tale  "—which  is  the  first  told  on 
the  way  to  Canterbury — is  a  chivalrous  legend, 
full  of  hunting,  battle,  and  tournament.  Into  it, 
although  the  scene  is  laid  in  Greece,  Chaucer 
has,  with  a  fine  scorn  of  anachronism,  poured 
all  the  splendour,  colour,  pomp,  and  circumstance 
of  the  fourteenth  century.  It  is  brilliant  as  a 
banner  displayed  to  the  sunlight.  It  is  real 
cloth  of  gold.  Compared  with  it,  Ivanhoe  is  a 
spectacle  at  Astley's.  The  style  is  everywhere 
more  adorned  than  is  usual,  although  even  here, 
and  in  the  richest  parts,  the  short,  homely,  caustic 
Chaucerian  line  is  largely  employed.  "  The  Man 
of  Law's  Tale,"  again,  is  distinguished  by  quite  a 
different  merit.  It  relates  the  sorrows  and  patience 
of  Constance,  and  is  filled  with  the  beauty  of 
holiness.  Constance  might  have  been  sister  to 
Cordelia:  she  is  one  of  the  white  lilies  of 
womanhood.  Her  story  is  almost  the  tenderest 
in  our  literature.  And  Chaucer's  art  comes  out 
in  this,  that  although  she  would  spread  her  hair, 
nay,  put  her  very  heart  beneath  the  feet  of  those 
who  wrong  her,  we  do  not  cease  for  one  moment 


GEOFFREY  CHAUCER  219 

to  respect  her.  This  is  a  feat  which  has  but 
seldom  been  achieved.  It  has  long  been  a  matter 
of  reproach  to  Mr.  Thackeray,  for  instance,  that 
the  only  faculty  with  which  he  gifts  his  good 
women  is  a  supreme  faculty  of  tears.  To  draw 
any  very  high  degree  of  female  patience  is  one 
of  the  most  difficult  of  tasks.  If  you  represent 
a  woman  bearing  wrong  with  a  continuous  un- 
murmuring meekness,  presenting  to  blows,  come 
from  what  quarter  they  may,  nothing  but  a  bent 
neck,  and  eyelids  humbly  drooped,  you  are  in 
nine  cases  out  of  ten  painting  elaborately  the 
portrait  of  a  fool;  and  if  you  miss  making  her 
a  fool,  you  are  certain  to  make  her  a  bore. 

Your  patient  woman,  in  books  and  in  life,  does 
not  draw  on  our  gratitude.  When  her  goodness  is 
not  stupidity — which  it  frequently  is — it  is  insult- 
ing. She  walks  about  an  incarnate  rebuke.  Her 
silence  is  an  incessant  complaint.  A  teacup 
thrown  at  your  head  is  not  half  so  alarming 
as  her  meek,  much-wronged,  unretorting  face. 
You  begin  to  suspect  that  she  consoles  herself 
with  the  thought  that  there  is  another  world 
where  brutal  brothers  and  husbands  are  settled 
with  for  their  behaviour  to  their  angelic  wives 
and  sisters  in  this.  Chaucer's  Constance  is  neither 
fool  nor  bore,  although,  in  the  hands  of  anybody 
else,  she  would  have  been  one  or  other,  or  both. 
Like  the  holy  religion  which  she  symbolises,  her 
sweet  face  draws  blessing  and  love  wherever  it 
goes;  it  heals'  old  wounds  with  its  beauty,  it 
carries  peace  into  the  heart  of  discord,  it  touches 
murder  itself  into  soft  and  penitential  tears.     In 


220  GEOFFREY  CHAUCER 

reading  the  old  tender-hearted  poet,  we  feel  that 
there  is  something  in  a  woman's  sweetness  and 
forgiveness  that  the  masculine  mind  cannot 
fathom ;  and  we  adore  the  hushed  step  and 
still  countenance  of  Constance  almost  as  if  an 
angel  passed. 

Chaucer's  orthography  is  unquestionably  un- 
couth at  first  sight ;  but  it  is  not  difficult  to  read, 
if  you  keep  a  good  glossary  beside  you  for  occa- 
sional reference,  and  are  willing  to  undergo  a 
little  trouble.  The  language  is  antique,  but  it 
is  full  of  antique  flavour.  Wine  of  excellent 
vintage  originally,  it  has  improved  through  all 
the  years  it  has  been  kept.  A  very  little  trouble 
on  the  reader's  part,  in  the  reign  of  Anne,  would 
have  made  him  as  intelligible  as  Addison ;  a  very 
little  more,  in  the  reign  of  Queen  Victoria,  will 
make  him  more  intelligible  than  Mr.  Browning. 
Yet  somehow  it  has  been  a  favourite  idea  with 
many  poets  that  he  required  modernisation,  and 
that  they  were  the  men  to  do  it.  Dryden,  Pope, 
and  Wordsworth  have  tried  their  hands  on  him. 
Wordsworth  performed  his  work  in  a  reverential 
enough  spirit;  but  it  may  be  doubted  whether 
his  efforts  have  brought  the  old  poet  a  single 
new  reader.  Dryden  and  Pope  did  not  translate 
or  modernise  Chaucer — they  committed  assault 
and  battery  upon  him.  They  turned  his  exquisitely 
naive  humour  into  their  own  coarseness ;  they  put 
doubles  entendre  into  his  mouth ;  they  blurred  his 
female  faces — as  a  picture  is  blurred  when  the 
hand  of  a  Vandal  is  drawn  over  its  yet  wet 
colours — and  they  turned  his  natural  descriptions 


GEOFFREY  CHAUCER  221 

into  the  natural  descriptions  of  "  Windsor  Forest " 
and  the  "  Fables."  The  grand  old  writer  does  not 
need  translation  or  modernisation;  but,  perhaps, 
if  it  be  done  at  all,  it  had  better  be  done  through 
the  medium  of  prose.  What  is  characteristic  about 
him  will  be  better  reached  in  that  way.  For  the 
benefit  of  young  readers,  I  subjoin  short  prose 
versions  of  two  of  the  Canterbury  Tales — a  story- 
book than  which  the  world  does  not  possess  a 
better.  Listen,  then,  to  the  tale  the  Knight  told 
as  the  pilgrims  rode  to  Canterbury : 

"There  was  once,  as  old  stories  tell,  a  certain 
Duke  Theseus,  lord  and  governor  of  Athens.  The 
same  was  a  great  warrior  and  conqueror  of  realms. 
He  defeated  the  Amazons,  and  wedded  the  queen 
of  that  country,  Hypolita.  After  his  marriage,  the 
duke,  his  wife,  and  his  sister  Emily,  with  all  their 
host,  were  riding  towards  Athens,  when  they  were 
aware  that  a  company  of  ladies,  clad  in  black, 
were  kneeling  two  by  two  on  the  highway,  wring- 
ing their  hands,  and  filling  the  air  with  lamenta- 
tions. The  duke,  beholding  this  piteous  sight, 
reined  in  his  steed,  and  inquired  the  reason  of 
their  grief.  Whereat  one  of  the  ladies,  queen  to 
the  slain  King  Capaneus,  told  him  that  at  the  siege 
of  Thebes  (of  which  town  they  were),  Creon,  the 
conqueror,  had  thrown  the  bodies  of  their  husbands 
in  a  heap,  and  would  on  no  account  allow  them 
to  be  buried,  so  that  their  limbs  were  mangled  by 
vultures  and  wild  beasts.  At  the  hearing  of  this 
great  wrong,  the  duke  started  down  from  his 
horse,  took  the  ladies  one  by  one  in  his  arms 
and   comforted   them,   sent   Hypolita   and   Emily 


222  GEOFFREY  CHAUCER 

home,  displayed  his  great  white  banner,  and 
immediately  rode  towards  Thebes  with  his  host. 
Arriving  at  the  city,  he  attacked  it  boldly,  slew  the 
tyrant  Creon  with  his  own  hand,  tore  down  the 
houses — wall,  roof,  and  rafter — and  then  gave 
the  bodies  to  the  weeping  ladies  that  they  might 
be  honourably  interred.  While  searching  amongst 
the  slain  Thebans,  two  young  knights  were  found 
grievously  wounded,  and  by  the  richness  of  their 
armour  they  were  known  to  be  of  the  blood-royal. 
These  young  knights,  Palamon  and  Arcite  by 
name,  the  duke  carried  to  Athens,  and  flung  into 
perpetual  prison.  Here  they  lived  year  by  year 
in  mourning  and  woe.  It  happened  one  May 
morning  that  Palamon,  who  by  the  clemency  of 
his  keeper  was  roaming  about  in  an  upper  chamber, 
looked  out  and  beheld  Emily  singing  in  the  garden 
and  gathering  flowers.  At  the  sight  of  the  beauti- 
ful apparition  he  started  and  cried  '  Ha ! '  Arcite 
rose  up,  crying,  '  Dear  cousin,  what  is  the  matter  ? ' 
when  he  too  was  stricken  to  the  heart  by  the  shaft 
of  her  beauty.  Then  the  prisoners  began  to 
dispute  as  to  which  of  them  had  the  better  right 
to  love  her.  Palamon  said  that  he  had  seen  her 
first ;  Arcite  said  that  in  love  each  man  fought  for 
himself;  and  so  they  disputed  day  by  day. 

Now  it  so  happened  that  at  this  time  the  Duke 
Perotheus  came  to  visit  his  old  playfellow  and 
friend  Theseus,  and  at  his  intercession  Arcite  was 
liberated,  on  the  condition  that  on  pain  of  death 
he  should  never  again  be  found  in  the  Athenian 
dominions.  Then  the  two  knights  grieved  in  their 
hearts.     'What  matters  liberty?'  said  Arcite — 'I 


GEOFFREY  CHAUCER  223 

am  a  banished  man !  Palamon  in  his  dungeon 
is  happier  than  I.  He  can  see  Emily,  and  be 
gladdened  by  her  beauty  ! '  '  Woe  is  me  ! '  said 
Palamon,  '  here  must  I  remain  in  durance.  Arcite 
is  abroad ;  he  may  make  sharp  war  on  the  Athenian 
border,  and  win  Emily  by  the  sword.'  When 
Arcite  returned  to  his  native  city,  he  became  so 
thin  and  pale  with  sorrow  that  his  friends  scarcely 
knew  him.  One  night  the  god  Mercury  appeared 
to  him  in  a  dream,  and  told  him  to  return  to 
Athens,  for  in  that  city  destiny  had  shaped  an  end 
of  his  woes. 

He  arose  next  morning  and  went.  He  entered 
as  a  menial  into  the  service  of  the  Duke  Theseus, 
and  in  a  short  time  was  promoted  to  be  page 
of  the  chamber  to  Emily  the  bright.  Mean- 
while, by  the  help  of  a  friend,  Palamon,  who 
had  drugged  his  jailor  with  spiced  wine,  made  his 
escape,  and,  as  morning  began  to  dawn,  he  hid 
himself  in  a  grove.  That  very  morning  Arcite  had 
ridden  from  Athens  to  gather  some  green  branches 
to  do  honour  to  the  month  of  May,  and  entered 
the  grove  in  which  Palamon  was  concealed. 
When  he  had  gathered  his  green  branches,  he  sat 
down,  and,  after  the  manner  of  lovers  (who  have 
no  constancy  of  spirits)  he  began  to  pour  forth 
his  sorrows  to  the  empty  air.  Palamon,  knowing 
his  voice,  started  up  with  a  white  face — '  False 
traitor,  Arcite !  now  I  have  found  thee.  Thou 
hast  deceived  the  Duke  Theseus !  I  am  the 
lover  of  Emily,  and  thy  mortal  foe !  Had  I  a 
weapon,  one  of  us  should  never  leave  this  grove 
alive  ! '     *  By  God,  who  sitteth  above  ! '  cried  the 


224  GEOFFREY  CHAUCER 

fierce  Arcite,  '  were  it  not  that  thou  art  sick  and 
mad  for  love,  I  would  slay  thee  here  with  my  own 
hand !  Meats  and  drinks  and  bedding  I  shall 
bring  thee  to-night,  to-morrow  swords  and  two 
suits  of  armour;  take  thou  the  better,  leave  me 
the  worse,  and  then  let  us  see  who  can  win  the 
lady.'  '  Agreed,'  said  Palamon ;  and  Arcite  rode 
away  in  great  fierce  joy  of  heart.  Next  morning, 
at  the  crowing  of  the  cock,  Arcite  placed  two  suits 
of  armour  before  him  on  his  horse,  and  rode  toward 
the  grove.  When  they  met,  the  colour  of  their 
faces  changed.  Each  thought,  '  Here  comes  my 
mortal  enemy ;  one  of  us  must  be  dead.'  Then 
friend- like,  as  if  they  had  been  brothers,  they 
assisted  each  the  other  to  rivet  on  the  armour; 
that  done,  the  great  bright  swords  went  to  and 
fro,  and  they  were  soon  standing  ankle-deep  in 
blood. 

That  same  morning  the  Duke  Theseus,  his 
wife,  and  Emily,  went  forth  to  hunt  the  hart  with 
hound  and  horn,  and,  as  destiny  ordered  it,  the 
chase  led  them  to  the  very  grove  in  which  the 
knights  were  fighting.  Theseus,  shading  his  eyes 
from  the  sunlight  with  his  hand,  saw  them,  and, 
spurring  his  horse  between  them,  cried,  'What 
manner  of  men  are  ye,  fighting  here  without  judge 
or  officer?'  Whereupon  Palamon  said,  'I  am 
that  Palamon  who  has  broken  your  prison;  this 
is  Arcite  the  banished  man,  who,  by  returning  to 
Athens,  has  forfeited  his  head.  Do  with  us  as 
you  list.  I  have  no  more  to  say.'  'You  have 
condemned  yourselves  ! '  cried  the  duke ;  '  by 
mighty  Mars  the  red,   both  of  you  shall  die ! ' 


GEOFFREY  CHAUCER  225 

Then  Emily  and  the  queen  fell  at  his  feet,  and 
with  prayers  and  tears  and  white  hands  lifted  up 
besought  the  lives  of  the  young  knights,  which  was 
soon  granted.  Theseus  began  to  laugh  when  he 
thought  of  his  own  young  days.  '  What  a  mighty 
god  is  Love ! '  quoth  he.  '  Here  are  Palamon 
and  Arcite  fighting  for  my  sister,  while  they  know 
she  can  only  marry  one.  Fight  they  ever  so  much, 
she  cannot  marry  both.  I  therefore  ordain  that 
both  of  you  go  away  and  return  this  day  year, 
each  bringing  with  him  a  hundred  knights,  and 
let  the  victor  in  solemn  tournament  have  Emily 
for  wife.'  Who  was  glad  now  but  Palamon !  who 
sprang  up  for  joy  but  Arcite  ! 

"When  the  twelve  months  had  nearly  passed 
away,  there  was  in  Athens  a  great  noise  of  work- 
men and  hammers.  The  duke  was  busy  with 
preparations.  He  built  a  large  amphitheatre, 
seated  round  and  round,  to  hold  thousands  of 
people.  He  erected  also  three  temples — one  for 
Diana,  one  for  Mars,  one  for  Venus;  how  rich 
these  were,  how  full  of  paintings  and  images, 
the  tongue  cannot  tell !  Never  was  such  prepara- 
tion made  in  the  world.  At  last  the  day  arrived 
in  which  the  knights  were  to  make  their  entrance 
into  the  city.  A  noise  of  trumpets  was  heard, 
and  through  the  city  rode  Palamon  and  his  train. 
AVith  him  came  Lycurgus,  the  King  of  Thrace. 
He  stood  in  a  great  car  of  gold,  drawn  by  four 
white  bulls,  and  his  face  was  like  a  grififin  when  he 
looked  about.  Twenty  or  more  hounds  used  for 
hunting  the  lion  and  the  bear  ran  about  the 
wheels  of  his  car;  at  his  back  rode  a  hundred 
15 


226  GEOFFREY  CHAUCER 

lords,  stern  and  stout.  Another  burst  of  trumpets, 
and  Arcite  entered  with  his  troop.  By  his  side 
rode  Emetrius,  the  King  of  India,  on  a  bay  steed 
covered  with  cloth  of  gold.  His  hair  was  yellow, 
and  glittered  like  the  sun ;  when  he  looked  upon 
the  people,  they  thought  his  face  was  like  the 
face  of  a  lion ;  his  voice  was  like  the  thunder  of 
a  trumpet.  He  bore  a  white  eagle  on  his  wrist, 
and  tame  lions  and  leopards  ran  among  the  horses 
of  his  train.  They  came  to  the  city  on  a  Sunday 
morning,  and  the  jousts  were  to  begin  on  Monday. 
What  pricking  of  squires  backwards  and  forwards, 
what  clanking  of  hammers,  what  baying  of  hounds, 
that  day  ! 

At  last  it  was  noon  of  Monday.  Theseus 
declared  from  his  throne  that  no  blood  was  to 
be  shed  —  that  they  should  take  prisoners  only, 
and  that  he  who  was  once  taken  prisoner  should 
on  no  account  again  mingle  in  the  fray.  Then 
the  duke,  the  queen,  Emily,  and  the  rest,  rode 
to  the  lists  with  trumpets  and  melody.  They  had 
no  sooner  taken  their  places  than  through  the 
gate  of  Mars  rode  Arcite  and  his  hundred,  dis- 
playing a  red  banner.  At  the  self-same  moment 
Palamon  and  his  company  entered  by  the  gate  of 
Venus,  with  a  banner  white  as  milk.  They  were 
then  arranged  in  two  ranks,  their  names  were 
called  over,  the  gates  were  shut,  the  herald  gave 
his  cry,  loud  and  clear  rang  the  trumpet,  and 
crash  went  the  spears  as  if  made  of  glass  when  the 
knights  met  in  battle  shock.  There  might  you  see 
a  knight  unhorsed,  a  second  crushing  his  way 
through  the  press,  armed  with  a  mighty  mace. 


GEOFFREY  CHAUCER  227 

a  third  hurt  and  taken  prisoner.  Many  a  time 
that  day  in  the  swaying  battle  did  the  two  Thebans 
meet,  and  thrice  were  they  unhorsed.  At  last, 
near  the  setting  of  the  sun,  when  Palamon  was 
fighting  with  Arcite,  he  was  wounded  by  Emetrius, 
and  the  battle  thickened  at  the  place.  Emetrius 
is  thrown  out  of  his  saddle  a  spear's  length. 
Lycurgus  is  overthrown,  and  rolls  on  the  ground, 
horse  and  man ;  and  Palamon  is  dragged  by  main 
force  to  the  stake.  Then  Theseus  rose  up  where 
he  sat,  and  cried,  '  Ho !  no  more ;  Arcite  of 
Thebes  hath  won  Emily ! '  at  which  the  people 
shouted  so  loudly,  that  it  almost  seemed  the 
mighty  lists  would  fall.  Arcite  now  put  up  his 
helmet,  and,  curveting  his  horse  through  the  open 
space,  smiled  to  Emily,  when  a  fire  from  Pluto 
started  out  of  the  earth ;  the  horse  shied,  and  his 
rider  was  thrown  on  his  head  on  the  ground. 
When  he  was  lifted,  his  breast  was  broken,  and 
his  face  was  as  black  as  coal.  Then  there  was 
grief  in  Athens — every  one  wept.  Soon  after, 
Arcite,  feeling  the  cold  death  creeping  up  from  his 
feet  and  darkening  his  face  and  eyes,  called 
Palamon  and  Emily  to  his  bedside,  when  he 
joined  their  hands,  and  died.  The  dead  body 
was  laid  on  a  pile,  dressed  in  splendid  war-gear, 
his  naked  sword  was  placed  by  his  side,  the  pile 
was  heaped  with  gums,  frankincense,  and  odours ; 
a  torch  was  applied,  and  when  the  flames  rose  up, 
and  the  smoky  fragrance  rolled  to  heaven,  the 
Greeks  galloped  round  three  times,  with  a  great 
shouting  and  clashing  of  shields." 

"  The  Man  of  Law's  Tale  "  runs  in  this  wise : 


228  GEOFFREY  CHAUCER 

"There  dwelt  in  Syria  once  a  company  of 
merchants,  who  scented  every  land  with  their 
spices.  They  dealt  in  jewels,  and  cloth  of  gold, 
and  sheeny  satins.  It  so  happened  that,  while 
some  of  them  were  dwelling  in  Rome  for  traffic, 
the  people  talked  of  nothing  save  the  wonderful 
beauty  of  Constance,  the  daughter  of  the  emperor. 
She  was  so  fair,  that  every  one  who  looked  upon 
her  face  fell  in  love  with  her.  In  a  short  time 
the  ships  of  the  merchants,  laden  with  rich  wares, 
were  furrowing  the  green  sea  going  home.  When 
they  came  to  their  native  city,  they  could  talk  of 
nothing  but  the  marvellous  beauty  of  Constance. 
Their  words  being  reported  to  the  Sultan,  he 
determined  that  none  other  should  be  his  wife; 
and  for  this  purpose  he  abandoned  the  religion  of 
the  false  Prophet,  and  was  baptized  in  the  Christian 
faith.  Ambassadors  passed  between  the  courts, 
and  the  day  came  at  length  when  Constance  was 
to  leave  Rome  for  her  husband's  palace  in  Syria. 
What  kisses  and  tears  and  lingering  embraces ! 
What  blessings  on  the  little  golden  head  which 
■was  so  soon  to  lie  in  the  bosom  of  a  stranger ! 
What  state  and  solemnity  in  the  procession  which 
wound  down  from  the  shore  to  the  ship !  At  last 
it  was  Syria.  Crowds  of  people  were  standing 
on  the  beach.  The  mother  of  the  Sultan  was 
there;  and  when  Constance  stepped  ashore,  she 
took  her  in  her  arms  and  kissed  her  as  if  she  had 
been  her  own  child.  Soon  after,  with  trumpets 
and  melody,  and  the  trampling  of  innumerable 
horses,  the  Sultan  came.  Everything  was  joy  and 
.happiness. 


GEOFFREY  CHAUCER  229 

"But  the  smiling  demoness,  his  mother,  could 
not  forgive  him  for  changing  his  faith,  and  she 
resolved  to  slay  him  that  very  night,  and  seize 
the  government  of  the  kingdom.  He  and  all  his 
lords  were  stabbed  in  the  rich  hall  while  they  were 
sitting  at  their  wine.  Constance  alone  escaped. 
She  was  then  put  into  a  ship  alone,  with  food  and. 
clothes,  and  told  that  she  might  find  her  way  back 
to  Italy.  She  sailed  away,  and  was  never  seen  by 
that  people.  For  five  years  she  wandered  to  and 
fro  upon  the  sea.  Do  you  ask  who  preserved  her  ?' 
The  same  God  who  fed  Elijah  with  ravens,  and 
saved  Daniel  in  the  horrible  den.  At  last  she 
floated  into  the  English  seas,  and  was  thrown  by 
the  waves  on  the  Northumberland  shore,  near 
which  stood  a  great  castle.  The  constable  of  the- 
castle  came  down  in  the  morning  to  see  the  woeful 
woman.  She  spoke  a  kind  of  corrupt  Latin,  and 
could  neither  tell  her  name  nor  the  name  of  the 
country  of  which  she  was  a  native.  She  said  she 
was  so  bewildered  in  the  sea  that  she  remembered 
nothing.  The  man  could  not 'help  loving  her, 
and  so  took  her  home  to  live  with  himself  and 
his  wife.  Now,  through  the  example  and  teach- 
ing of  Constance,  Dame  Hermigild  was  con- 
verted to  Christianity.  It  happened  also  that 
three  aged  Christian  Britons  were  living  near 
that  place  in  great  fear  of  their  pagan  neighbours, 
and  one  of  these  men  was  blind. 

One  day,  as  the  constable,  his  wife,  and  Con- 
stance were  walking  along  the  seashore,  they 
were  met  by  the  blind  man,  who  called  out,  '  In 
the   name    of   Christ,  give    me   my  sight,   Dame 


230  GEOFFREY  CHAUCER 

Hermigild ! '  At  this,  on  account  of  her  husband, 
she  was  sore  afraid,  but,  encouraged  by  Constance, 
she  wrought  a  great  miracle,  and  gave  the  blind 
man  his  sight. 

"But  Satan,  the  enemy  of  all,  wanted  to  destroy 
Constance,  and  he  employed  a  young  knight  for 
that  purpose.  This  knight  had  loved  her  with  a 
foul  affection,  to  which  she  could  give  no  return. 
At  last,  wild  for  revenge,  he  crept  at  night  into 
Hermigild's  chamber,  slew  her,  and  laid  the 
bloody  knife  on  the  innocent  pillow  of  Constance. 
The  next  morning  there  was  woe  and  dolour  in 
the  house.  She  was  brought  before  Alia,  the 
king,  charged  with  the  murder.  The  people 
could  not  believe  that  she  had  done  this  thing 
— they  knew  she  loved  Hermigild  so.  Constance 
fell  down  on  her  knees  and  prayed  to  God  for 
succour.  Have  you  ever  been  in  a  crowd  in 
which  a  man  is  being  led  to  death,  and,  seeing  a 
wild,  pale  face,  know  by  that  sign  that  you  are 
looking  upon  the  doomed  creature? — so  wild,  so 
pale  looked  Constance  when  she  stood  before  the 
king  and  people.  The  tears  ran  down  Alla's  face. 
'  Go  fetch  a  book,'  cried  he ;  '  and  if  this  knight 
swears  that  the  woman  is  guilty,  she  shall  surely 
die.'  The  book  was  brought,  the  knight  took 
the  oath,  and  that  moment  an  unseen  hand  smote 
him  on  the  neck,  so  that  he  fell  down  on  the 
floor,  his  eyes  bursting  out  of  his  head.  Then  a 
celestial  voice  was  heard  in  the  midst,  crying, 
*  Thou  hast  slandered  a  daughter  of  Holy  Church 
in  high  presence,  and  yet  I  hold  my  peace.'  A 
great  awe  fell  on  all  who  heard,  and  the  king  and 


GEOFFREY  CHAUCER  231 

multitudes  of  his  people  were  converted.  Shortly 
after  this,  Alia  wedded  Constance  with  great 
richness  and  solemnity.  At  length  he  was  called 
to  defend  his  border  against  the  predatory  Scots, 
and  in  his  absence  a  man-child  was  born.  A 
messenger  was  sent  with  the  blissful  tidings  to 
the  king's  camp ;  but,  on  his  way,  the  messenger 
turned  aside  to  the  dwelling  of  Donegild,  the 
king's  mother,  and  said,  'Be  blithe,  madam;  the 
queen  has  given  birth  to  a  son,  and  joy  is  in  the 
land.  Here  is  the  letter  I  bear  to  the  king.'  The 
wicked  Donegild  said,  '  You  must  be  already  tired 
— here  are  refreshments.'  And  while  the  simple 
man  drank  ale  and  wine,  she  forged  a  letter, 
saying  that  the  queen  had  been  delivered  of  a 
creature  so  fiendish  and  horrible,  that  no  one  in 
the  castle  could  bear  to  look  upon  it.  This  letter 
the  messenger  gave  to  the  king,  and  who  can  tell 
his  grief!  But  he  WTOte  in  reply,  'Welcome  be 
the  child  that  Christ  sends !  Welcome,  O  Lord, 
be  Thy  pleasure!  Be  careful  of  my  wife  and 
child  till  my  return.'  The  messenger  on  his 
return  slept  at  Donegild's  court,  with  the  letter 
under  his  girdle.  It  was  stolen  while  in  his 
drunken  sleep,  and  another  put  in  its  place, 
charging  the  constable  not  to  let  Constance 
remain  three  days  in  the  kingdom,  but  to  send 
her  and  her  child  away  in  the  same  ship  in  which 
she  had  come. 

"  The  constable  could  not  help  himself.  Thou- 
sands are  gathered  on  the  shore.  With  a  face 
wild  and  pale  as  when  she  came  from  the  sea, 
and  bearing   her  crying  infant  in   her  arms,  she 


232  GEOFFREY  CHAUCER 

comes  through  the  crowd,  which  shrinks  back^ 
leaving  a  lane  for  her  sorrow.  She  takes  her  seat 
in  the  little  boat ;  and  while  the  cruel  people  gaze 
hour  by  hour  from  the  shore,  she  passes  into  the 
sunset,  and  away  out  into  the  night  under  the 
stars.  When  Alia  returned  from  the  war,  and 
found  how  he  had  been  deceived,  he  slew  his 
mother  in  the  bitterness  of  his  heart. 

"  News  had  come  to  Rome  of  the  cruelty  of  the 
Sultan's  mother  to  Constance,  and  an  army  was 
sent  to  waste  her  country.  After  the  land  had 
been  burned  and  desolated,  the  commander  was 
crossing  the  seas  in  triumph,  when  he  met  the 
ship  sailing  in  which  sat  Constance  and  her  little 
boy.  They  were  both  brought  to  Rome,  and 
although  the  commander's  wife  and  Constance 
were  cousins,  the  one  did  not  know  the  other. 

"By  this  time,  remorse  for  the  slaying  of  his 
mother  had  seized  Alla's  mind,  and  he  could 
find  no  rest.  He  resolved  to  make  a  pilgrimage 
to  Rome  in  search  of  peace  He  crossed  the 
Alps  with  his  train,  and  entered  the  city  with 
great  glory  and  magnificence.  One  day  he  feasted 
at  the  commander's  house,  at  which  Constance 
dwelt;  and  at  her  request  her  little  son  was 
admitted,  and  during  the  progress  of  the  feast 
the  child  went  and  stood  looking  in  the  king's 
face.  *  What  fair  child  is  that  standing  yonder }  * 
said  the  king.  '  By  St.  John,  I  know  not ! '  quoth 
the  commander ;  '  he  has  a  mother,  but  no  father, 
that  I  know  of.'  And  then  he  told  the  king — who 
seemed  all  the  while  like  a  man  stunned — how  he 
had  found  the  mother  and  child  floating  about  on 


GEOFFREY  CHAUCER  233; 

the  sea.  The  king  rose  from  the  table  and  sent 
for  Constance,  and  when  he  saw  her  and  thought 
on  all  her  wrongs,  he  could  not  refrain  from  tears. 
'This  is  your  little  son,  Maurice,'  she  said,  as  she 
led  him  in  by  the  hand.  Next  day  she  met  the 
emperor  her  father  in  the  street,  and,  falling  down 
on  her  knees  before  him,  said,  'Father,  has  the 
remembrance  of  your  young  child  Constance  gone 
out  of  your  mind?  I  am  that  Constance,  whom 
you  sent  to  Syria,  and  who  was  thought  to  be  lost 
in  the  sea.' 

"  That  day  there  was  great  joy  in  Rome ;  and 
soon  afterwards,  Alia,  with  his  wife  and  child, 
returned  to  England,  where  they  lived  in  great 
prosperity  till  he  died." 


BOOKS  AND  GARDENS. 

MOST  men  seek  solitude  from  wounded 
vanity,  from  disappointed  ambition,  from 
a  miscarriage  in  the  passions;  but  some  others 
from  native  instinct,  as  a  duckling  seeks  water.  I 
have  taken  to  my  solitude,  such  as  it  is,  from  an 
indolent  turn  of  mind ;  and  this  solitude  I  sweeten 
by  an  imaginative  sympathy  which  recreates  the 
past  for  me — the  past  of  the  world,  as  well  as  the 
past  which  belongs  to  me  as  an  individual — and 
which  makes  me  independent  of  the  passing 
moment.  I  see  every  one  struggling  after  the 
unattainable,  but  I  struggle  not,  and  so  spare 
myself  the  pangs  of  disappointment  and  disgust. 
I  have  no  ventures  at  sea,  and,  consequently,  do 
not  fear  the  arrival  of  evil  tidings.  I  have  no 
desire  to  act  any  prominent  part  in  the  world,  but 
I  am  devoured  by  an  unappeasable  curiosity  as  to 
the  men  who  do  act.  I  am  not  an  actor,  I  am  a 
spectator  only.  My  sole  occupation  is  sight-seeing. 
In  a  certain  imperial  idleness,  I  amuse  myself  with 
the  world.  Ambition !  What  do  I  care  for 
ambition  ?  The  oyster  with  much  pain  produces 
its  pearl.     I  take  the  pearl     Why  should  I  produce 


BOOKS  AND  GARDENS  235 

one  after  this  miserable,  painful  fashion  ?  It  would 
be  but  a  flawed  one  at  best.  These  pearls  I  can 
pick  up  by  the  dozen.  The  production  of  them 
is  going  on  all  around  me,  and  there  will  be  a  nice 
crop  for  the  solitary  man  of  the  next  century. 
Look  at  a  certain  silent  emperor,  for  instance ;  a 
hundred  years  hence  his  pearl  will  be  handed 
about  from  hand  to  hand ;  will  be  curiously 
scrutinised  and  valued ;  will  be  set  in  its  place  in 
the  world's  cabinet.  I  confess  I  should  like  to  see 
the  completion  of  that  filmy  orb.  Will  it  be  pure 
in  colour?  Will  its  purity  be  marred  by  an 
ominous  bloody  streak?  Of  this  I  am  certain, 
that  in  the  cabinet  in  which  the  world  keeps  these 
peculiar  treasures,  no  one  will  be  looked  at  more 
frequently,  or  will  provoke  a  greater  variety  of 
opinions  as  to  its  intrinsic  worth.  Why  should  I 
be  ambitious .''  Shall  I  write  verses  ?  I  am  not 
likely  to  surpass  Mr.  Tennyson  or  Mr.  Browning 
in  that  walk.  Shall  I  be  a  musician  ?  The  black- 
bird singing  this  moment  somewhere  in  my 
garden  shrubbery  puts  me  to  instant  shame. 
Shall  I  paint  ?  The  intensest  scarlet  on  an  artist's 
palette  is  but  ochre  to  that  I  saw  this  morning  at 
sunrise.  No,  no;  let  me  enjoy  Mr.  Tennyson's 
verse,  and  the  blackbird's  song,  and  the  colours  of 
sunrise,  but  do  not  let  me  emulate  them.  I  am 
happier  as  it  is.  I  do  not  need  to  make  history — 
there  are  plenty  of  people  willing  to  save  me 
trouble  on  that  score.  The  cook  makes  the 
dinner,  the  guest  eats  it,  and  the  last,  not  without 
reason,  is  considered  the  happier  man. 

In  my  garden  I  spend  my  days ;  in  my  libraxv  I 


236  BOOKS  AND  GARDENS 

spend    my    nights.       My    interests    are    divided 
between  my  geraniums  and  my  books.     With  the 
flower  I  am  in  the  present;  with  the  book  I  am 
in  the  past.     I  go  into  my  library,  and  all  history 
unrolls  before  me.     I  breathe  the  morning  air  of 
the  world  while  the   scent    of  Eden's   roses   yet 
lingered  in  it,  while  it  vibrated  only  to  the  world's 
first  brood  of  nightingales,  and  to  the  laugh  of  Eve. 
I  see  the  pyramids  building ;  I  hear  the  shoutings 
of  the   armies   of  Alexander;  I  feel   the  ground 
shake  beneath  the  march  of  Cambyses.     I  sit  as 
in  a  theatre — the  stage  is  time,  the  play  is  the  play 
of  the   world.      What  a  spectacle   it   is !     What 
kingly   pomp,    what    processions    file   past,    what 
cities  burn  to   heaven,    what   crowds  of  captives 
are  dragged  at  the  chariot-wheels  of  conquerors  \ 
I  hiss  or  cry  "  Bravo  "  when  the  great  actors  come 
on  shaking  the  stage.     I  am  a  Roman  emperor 
when  I  look  at  a  Roman  coin.     I  lift  Homer,  and 
I  shout  with  Achilles  in  the  trenches.     The  silence 
of  the  unpeopled  Syrian   plains,  the  outcomings 
and   ingoings    of   the    patriarchs,    Abraham   and 
Ishmael,  Isaac  in  the  fields  at  eventide,  Rebekah 
at  the  well,  Jacob's  guile,  Esau's  face  reddened  by 
desert   sun-heat,   Joseph's    splendid    funeral   pro- 
cession— all  these  things  I  find  within  the  boards 
of  my  Old  Testament.     What  a  silence  in  those 
old  books  as  of  a  half-peopled  world — what  bleat- 
ing  of  flocks  —  what  green   pastoral  rest  —  what 
indubitable    human    existence!     Across   brawling 
centuries  of  blood  and  war,  I  hear  the  bleating  of 
Abraham's   flocks,   the    tinkling    of  the   bells   of 
Rebekah's   camels.     O  men  and   women,  so  far 


BOOKS  AND  GARDENS  237 

separated  yet  so  near,  so  strange  yet  so  well  known, 
by  what  miraculous  power  do  I  know  ye  all ! 
Books  are  the  true  Elysian  fields  where  the  spirits 
of  the  dead  converse,  and  into  these  fields  a  mortal 
may  venture  unappalled.  What  king's  court  can 
boast  such  company  ?  What  school  of  philosophy 
such  wisdom?  The  wit  of  the  ancient  world  is 
glancing  and  flashing  there.  There  is  Pan's  pipe, 
there  are  the  songs  of  Apollo.  Seated  in  my 
library  at  night,  and  looking  on  the  silent  faces  of 
my  books,  I  am  occasionally  visited  by  a  strange 
sense  of  the  supernatural.  They  are  not  col- 
lections of  printed  pages,  they  are  ghosts.  I  take 
one  down  and  it  speaks  with  me  in  a  tongue 
not  now  heard  on  earth,  and  of  men  and  things  of 
which  it  alone  possesses  knowledge.  I  call  myself 
a  solitary,  but  sometimes  I  think  I  misapply  the 
term.  No  man  sees  more  company  than  I  do. 
I  travel  with  mightier  cohorts  around  me  than 
ever  did  Timour  or  Genghis  Khan  on  their  fiery 
marches.  I  am  a  sovereign  in  my  library,  but  it  is 
the  dead,  not  the  living  that  attend  my  levees. 

The  house  I  dwell  in  stands  apart  from  the  little 
town,  and  relates  itself  to  the  houses  as  I  do  to  the 
inhabitants.  It  sees  everything,  but  is  itself  un- 
seen, or,  at  all  events,  unregarded.  My  study 
window  looks  down  upon  Dreamthorp  like  a 
meditative  eye.  Without  meaning  it,  I  feel  I  am 
a  spy  on  the  ongoings  of  the  quiet  place.  Around 
my  house  there  is  an  old-fashioned  rambling 
garden,  with  close-shaven  grassy  plots,  and  fan- 
tastically clipped  yews,  which  have  gathered  their 
<iarkness  from  a  hundred   summers  and  winters; 


238  BOOKS  AND  GARDENS 

and  sun-dials,  in  which  the  sun  is  constantly 
telling  his  age ;  and  statues,  green  with  neglect  and 
the  stains  of  the  weather.  The  garden  I  love  more 
than  any  place  on  earth ;  it  is  a  better  study  than 
the  room  inside  the  house  which  is  dignified  by 
that  name.  I  like  to  pace  its  gravelled  walks,  to 
sit  in  the  mosshouse,  which  is  warm  and  cosy  as 
a  bird's  nest,  and  wherein  twilight  dwells  at  noon- 
day ;  to  enjoy  the  feast  of  colour  spread  for  me  in 
the  curiously  shaped  floral  spaces.  My  garden, 
with  its  silence  and  the  pulses  of  fragrance  that 
come  and  go  on  the  airy  undulations,  affects  me 
like  sweet  music.  Care  stops  at  the  gates,  and 
gazes  at  me  wistfully  through  the  bars.  Among 
my  flowers  and  trees  nature  takes  me  into  her  own 
hands,  and  I  breathe  freely  as  the  first  man.  It  is 
curious,  pathetic  almost,  I  sometimes  think,  how 
deeply  seated  in  the  human  heart  is  the  liking  for 
gardens  and  gardening.  The  sickly  seamstress  in 
the  narrow  city  lane  tends  her  box  of  sicklier 
mignonette.  The  retired  merchant  is  as  fond  of 
tulips  as  ever  was  Dutchman  during  the  famous 
mania.  The  author  finds  a  garden  the  best  place 
to  think  out  his  thought.  In  the  disabled  states- 
man every  restless  throb  of  regret  or  ambition  is 
stilled  when  he  looks  upon  his  blossomed  apple 
trees.  Is  the  fancy  too  far  brought,  that  this  love 
for  gardens  is  a  reminiscence  haunting  the  race  of 
that  remote  time  in  the  world's  dawn  when  but  two 
persons  existed — a  gardener  named  Adam,  and  a 
gardener's  wife  called  Eve? 

When  I  walk  out  of  my  house  into  my  garden  I 
walk  out  of  my  habitual  self,  my  everyday  thoughts, 


BOOKS  AND  GARDENS  239 

my  customariness  of  joy  or  sorrow  by  which  I  re- 
cognise and  assure  myself  of  my  own  identity. 
These  I  leave  behind  me  for  a  time  as  the  bather 
leaves  his  garments  on  the  beach.  This  piece  of 
garden-ground,  in  extent  barely  a  square  acre,  is 
a  kingdom  with  its  own  interests,  annals,  and 
incidents.  Something  is  always  happening  in  it. 
To-day  is  always  different  from  yesterday.  This 
spring  a  chaffinch  built  a  nest  in  one  of  my  yew 
trees.  The  particular  yew  which  the  bird  did  me 
the  honour  to  select  had  been  clipped  long  ago 
into  a  similitude  of  Adam,  and,  in  fact,  went  by 
his  name.  The  resemblance  to  a  human  figure 
was,  of  course,  remote,  but  the  intention  was 
evident.  In  the  black  shock  head  of  our  first 
parent  did  the  birds  establish  their  habitation. 
A  prettier,  rounder,  more  comfortable  nest  I  never 
saw,  and  many  a  wild  swing  it  got  when  Adam 
bent  his  back,  and  bobbed  and  shook  his  head 
when  the  bitter  east  wind  was  blowing.  The  nest 
interested  me,  and  I  visited  it  every  day  from  the 
time  that  the  first  stained  turquoise  sphere  was  laid 
in  the  warm  lining  of  moss  and  horse  hair,  till, 
when  I  chirped,  four  red  hungry  throats,  eager 
for  worm  or  slug,  opened  out  of  a  confused  mass 
of  feathery  down.  What  a  hungry  brood  it  was, 
to  be  sure,  and  how  often  father  and  mother  were 
put  to  it  to  provide  them  sustenance  !  I  went  but 
the  other  day  to  have  a  peep,  and,  behold,  brood 
and  parent-birds  were  gone,  the  nest  was  empty, 
Adam's  visitors  had  departed.  In  the  corners  of 
my  bedroom  window  I  have  a  couple  of  swallows* 
nests,   and  nothing  can    be   pleasanter  in  these 


:240  BOOKS  AND  GARDENS 

•summer  mornings  than  to  lie  in  a  kind  of  half- 
dream,  conscious  all  the  time  of  the  chatterings 
and  endearments  of  the  man-loving  creatures. 
They  are  beautifully  restless,  and  are  continually 
darting  around  their  nests  in  the  window  corners. 
All  at  once  there  is  a  great  twittering  and  noise ; 
something  of  moment  has  been  witnessed,  some- 
thing of  importance  has  occurred  in  swallow-world, 
perhaps  a  fly  of  unusual  size  or  savour  has  been 
bolted.  Clinging  with  their  feet,  and  with  heads 
turned  charmingly  aside,  they  chatter  away  with 
voluble  sweetness,  then  with  a  gleam  of  silver  they 
are  gone,  and  in  a  trice  one  is  poising  itself  in  the 
wind  above  my  treetops,  while  the  other  dips  her 
wing  as  she  darts  after  a  fly  through  the  arches  of 
the  bridge  which  lets  the  slow  stream  down  to  the 
sea.  I  go  to  the  southern  wall,  against  which  I 
have  trained  my  fruit  trees,  and  find  it  a  sheet  of 
white  and  vermeil  blossom,  and  as  I  know  it  by 
heart,  I  can  notice  what  changes  take  place  on  it 
day  by  day,  what  later  clumps  of  buds  have  burst 
■into  colour  and  odour.  What  beauty  in  that 
blooming  wall — the  wedding-presents  of  a  princess 
ranged  for  admiration  would  not  please  me  half  so 
much  ;  what  delicate  colouring,  what  fragrance  the 
thievish  winds  steal  from  it  without  making  it  one 
odour  the  poorer,  with  what  a  complacent  hum  the 
bee  goes  past.  My  chaffinch's  nest,  my  swallows 
— twittering  but  a  few  months  ago  around  the 
kraal  of  the  Hottentot,  or  chasing  flies  around  the 
six  solitary  pillars  of  Baalbec — with  their  nests  in 
the  corners  of  my  bedroom  windows,  my  long- 
firmed  fruit  trees  flowering  against  my  sunny  wall 


BOOKS  AND  GARDENS  241 

are  not  mighty  pleasures,  but  then  they  are  my 
own,  and  I  have  not  to  go  in  search  of  them. 
And  so,  like  a  wise  man,  I  am  content  with  what 
I  have,  and  make  it  richer  by  my  fancy,  which  is 
as  cheap  as  sunlight,  and  gilds  objects  quite  as 
prettily.  It  is  the  coins  in  my  own  pocket,  not  the 
coins  in  the  pockets  of  my  neighbour,  that  are  of 
use  to  me.  Discontent  has  never  a  doit  in  her 
purse,  and  envy  is  the  most  poverty-stricken  of  the 
passions. 

His  own  children,  and  the  children  he  happens 
to  meet  on  the  country  road,  a  man  regards  with 
quite  different  eyes.  The  strange,  sunburnt  brats 
returning  from  a  primrose-hunt  and  laden  with 
floral  spoils,  may  be  as  healthy-looking,  as  pretty, 
as  well-behaved,  as  sweet-tempered,  as  neatly 
dressed,  as  those  that  bear  his  name — may  be 
in  every  respect  as  worthy  of  love  and  admiration, 
but  then  they  have  the  misfortune  not  to  belong 
to  him.  That  little  fact  makes  a  great  difference. 
He  knows  nothing  about  them — his  acquaintance 
with  them  is  born  and  dead  in  a  moment.  I  like 
my  garden  better  than  any  other  garden  for  the 
same  reason.  It  is  my  own.  And  ownership 
in  such  a  matter  implies  a  great  deal.  When  I 
first  settled  here,  the  ground  around  the  house 
was  sour  moorland.  I  made  the  walk,  planted 
the  trees,  built  the  mosshouse,  erected  the 
sun-dial,  brought  home  the  rhododendrons  and 
fed  them  with  the  mould  which  they  love  so 
well.  I  am  the  creator  of  every  blossom,  of  every 
odour  that  comes  and  goes  in  the  wind.  The 
rustle  of  my  trees  is  to  my  ear  what  his  child's 
16 


24*  BOOKS  AND  GARDENS 

voice  is  to  my  friends  the  village  doctor  or  the 
village  clergyman.  I  know  the  genealogy  of 
every  tree  and  plant  in  my  garden.  I  watch 
their  growth  as  a  father  watches  the  growth  of  his 
children.  It  is  curious  enough,  as  showing  from 
what  sources  objects  derive  their  importance,  that 
if  you  have  once  planted  a  tree  for  other  than 
mere  commercial  purposes — and  in  that  case  it  is 
usually  done  by  your  orders  and  by  the  hands 
of  hirelings — you  have  always  in  it  a  quite 
peculiar  interest.  You  care  more  for  it  than  you 
care  for  all  the  forests  of  Norway  or  America. 
You  have  planted  it,  and  that  is  sufficient  to  make 
it  peculiar  amongst  the  trees  of  the  world.  This 
personal  interest  I  take  in  every  inmate  of  my 
garden,  and  this  interest  I  have  increased  by 
sedulous  watching.  But  really  trees  and  plants 
resemble  human  beings  in  many  ways.  You 
shake  a  packet  of  seed  into  your  forcing-frame, 
and  while  some  grow,  others  pine  and  die,  or 
struggle  on  under  hereditary  defect,  showing 
indifferent  blossoms  late  in  the  season,  and 
succumb  at  length.  So  far  as  one  could  discover, 
the  seeds  were  originally  alike — they  received 
the  same  care,  they  were  fed  by  the  same  moisture 
and  sunlight,  but  of  no  two  of  them  are  the  issues 
the  same.  Do  I  not  see  something  of  this 
kind  in  the  world  of  men,  and  can  I  not  please 
myself  with  quaint  analogies?  These  plants  and 
trees  have  their  seasons  of  illness,  and  their 
sudden  deaths.  Your  best  rose  tree,  whose  fame 
has  spread  for  twenty  miles,  is  smitten  by  some 
fell  disease;  its  leaves   take    an  unhealthy  hue, 


BOOKS  AND  GARDENS  243 

and  in  a  day  or  so  it  is  sapless — dead.  A  tree 
of  mine,  the  first  last  spring  to  put  out  its  leaves, 
and  which  wore  them  till  November,  made  this 
spring  no  green  response  to  the  call  of  the 
sunshine.  Marvelling  what  ailed  it,  I  went  to 
examine,  and  found  it  had  been  dead  for  months 
— and  yet  during  the  winter  there  had  been 
no  frost  to  speak  of,  and  more  than  its  brothers 
and  sisters  it  was  in  no  way  exposed.  These 
are  the  tragedies  of  the  garden,  and  they  shadow 
forth  other  tragedies  nearer  us.  In  everything 
we  find  a  kind  of  dim  mirror  of  ourselves.  Sterne, 
if  placed  in  a  desert,  said  he  would  love  a  tree ; 
and  I  can  fancy  such  a  love  would  not  be 
altogether  unsatisfying.  Love  of  trees  and  plants 
is  safe.  You  do  not  run  risk  in  your  affections. 
They  are  my  children,  silent  and  beautiful, 
untouched  by  any  passion,  unpolluted  by  evil 
tempers ;  for  me  they  leaf  and  flower  themselves. 
In  autumn  they  put  off  their  rich  apparel,  but 
next  year  they  are  back  again  with  dresses  fair 
as  ever;  and — one  can  extract  a  kind  of  fanciful 
bitterness  from  the  thought — should  I  be  laid 
in  my  grave  in  winter,  they  would  all  in  spring 
be  back  again  with  faces  as  bright  and  with 
breaths  as  sweet,  missing  me  not  at  all.  Un- 
grateful, the  one  I  am  fondest  of  would  blossom 
very  prettily  if  planted  on  the  soil  that  covers 
me — where  my  dog  would  die,  where  my  best 
friend  would  perhaps  raise  an  inscription ! 

I  like  flowering  plants,  but  I  like  trees  more, 
for  the  reason,  I  suppose,  that  they  are  slower 
in  coming  to  maturity,  are  longer-lived,  that  you 


244  BOOKS  AND  GARDENS 

can  become  better  acquainted  with  them,  and 
that  in  the  course  of  years  memories  and 
associations  hang  as  thickly  on  their  boughs  as 
do  leaves  in  summer  or  fruits  in  autumn.  I 
do  not  wonder  that  great  earls  value  their  trees, 
and  never,  save  in  direst  extremity,  lift  upon 
them  the  axe.  Ancient  descent  and  glory  are 
made  audible  in  the  proud  murmur  of  immemorial 
woods.  There  are  forests  in  England  whose 
leafy  noises  may  be  shaped  into  Agincourt 
and  the  names  of  the  battlefields  of  the  Roses; 
oaks  that  dropped  their  acorns  in  the  year  that 
Henry  viii.  held  his  field  of  the  Cloth  of  Gold, 
and  beeches  that  gave  shelter  to  the  deer  when 
Shakspeare  was  a  boy.  There  they  stand,  in 
sun  and  shower,  the  broad-armed  witnesses  of 
perished  centuries;  and  sore  must  his  need  be 
who  commands  a  woodland  massacre.  A  great 
English  tree,  the  rings  of  a  century  in  its  bole, 
is  one  of  the  noblest  of  natural  objects;  and 
it  touches  the  imagination  no  less  than  the  eye, 
for  it  grows  out  of  tradition  and  a  past  order 
of  things,  and  is  pathetic  with  the  suggestions 
of  dead  generations.  Trees  waving  a  colony 
of  rooks  in  the  wind  to-day,  are  older  than  historic 
lines.  Trees  are  your  best  antiques.  There 
are  cedars  on  Lebanon  which  the  axes  of  Solomon 
spared,  they  say,  when  he  was  busy  with  his 
Temple;  there  are  olives  on  Olivet  that  might 
have  rustled  in  the  ears  of  the  Master  and  the 
Twelve ;  there  are  oaks  in  Sherwood,  which 
have  tingled  to  the  horn  of  Robin  Hood,  and 
have  listened  to    Maid  Marian's    laugh.     Think 


BOOKS  AND  GARDENS  245 

of  an  existing  Syrian  cedar  which  is  nearly  as 
old  as  history,  which  was  middle-aged  before 
the  wolf  suckled  Romulus ;  think  of  an  existing 
English  elm  in  whose  branches  the  heron  was 
reared  which  the  hawks  of  Saxon  Harold  killed ! 
If  you  are  a  notable,  and  wish  to  be  remembered, 
better  plant  a  tree  than  build  a  city  or  strike 
a  medal — it  will  outlast  both. 

My  trees  are  young  enough,  and  if  they  do  not 
take  me  away  into  the  past,  they  project  me  into 
the  future.  When  I  planted  them,  I  knew  I  was 
performing  an  act,  the  issues  of  which  would 
outlast  me  long.  My  oaks  are  but  saplings ;  but 
what  undreamed-of  English  kings  will  they  not 
outlive  ?  I  pluck  my  apples,  my  pears,  my  plums ; 
and  I  know  that  from  the  same  branches  other 
hands  will  pluck  apples,  pears,  and  plums  when 
this  body  of  mine  will  have  shrunk  into  a  pinch  of 
dust.  I  cannot  dream  with  what  year  these  hands 
will  date  their  letters.  A  man  does  not  plant  a 
tree  for  himself,  he  plants  it  for  posterity.  And 
sitting  idly  in  the  sunshine,  I  think  at  times  of  the 
unborn  people  who  will,  to  some  small  extent,  be 
indebted  to  me.  Remember  me  kindly,  ye  future 
men  and  women  !  When  I  am  dead,  the  juice  of 
my  apples  will  foam  and  spirt  in  your  cider  presses, 
my  plums  will  gather  for  you  their  misty  bloom ; 
and  that  any  of  your  youngsters  should  be  choked 
by  one  of  my  cherry-stones,  merciful  Heaven 
forfend ! 

In  this  pleasant  summer  weather  I  hold  my 
audience  in  my  garden  rather  than  in  my  house. 
In  all   my   interviews  the  sun   is  a  third   party. 


246  BOOKS  AND  GARDENS 

Every  village  has  its  Fool,  and,  of  course,  Dream- 
thorp  is  not  without  one.  Him  I  get  to  run  my 
messages  for  me,  and  he  occasionally  turns  my 
garden  borders  with  a  neat  hand  enough.  He 
and  I  hold  frequent  converse,  and  people  here,  I 
have  been  told,  think  we  have  certain  points  of 
sympathy.  Although  this  is  not  meant  for  a 
compliment,  I  take  it  for  one.  The  poor,  faithful 
creature's  brain  has  strange  visitors :  now  'tis  fun, 
now  wisdom,  and  now  something  which  seems  in 
the  queerest  way  a  compound  of  both.  He  lives 
in  a  kind  of  twilight  which  obscures  objects,  and 
his  remarks  seem  to  come  from  another  world  than 
that  in  which  ordinary  people  live.  He  is  the  only 
original  person  of  my  acquaintance ;  his  views  of 
life  are  his  own,  and  form  a  singular  commentary 
on  those  generally  accepted.  He  is  dull  enough 
at  times,  poor  fellow ;  but  anon  he  startles  you  with 
something,  and  you  think  he  must  have  wandered 
out  of  Shakspeare's  plays  into  this  out-of-the-way 
place.  Up  from  the  village  now  and  then  comes 
to  visit  me  the  tall,  gaunt,  atrabilious  confectioner, 
who  has  a  hankering  after  Red-republicanism,  and 
the  destruction  of  Queen,  Lords,  and  Commons. 
Guy  Fawkes  is,  I  believe,  the  only  martyr  in  his 
calendar.  The  sourest-tempered  man,  I  think, 
that  ever  engaged  in  the  manufacture  of  sweet- 
meats. I  wonder  that  the  oddity  of  the  thing 
never  strikes  himself.  To  be  at  all  consistent,  he 
should  put  poison  in  his  lozenges,  and  become  the 
Herod  of  the  village  innocents.  One  of  his  many 
eccentricities  is  a  love  for  flowers,  and  he  visits  me 
often  to  have  a  look  at  my  greenhouse  and  my 


BOOKS  Ai>ID  GARDENS  247 

borders.  I  listen  to  his  truculent  and  revolu- 
tionary speeches,  and  take  my  revenge  by  sending 
the  gloomy  egotist  away  with  a  nosegay  in  his 
hand,  and  a  gay-coloured  flower  stuck  in  a  button- 
hole. He  goes  quite  unconscious  of  my  floral 
satire. 

The  village  clergyman  and  the  village  doctor  are 
great  friends  of  mine ;  they  come  to  visit  me  often, 
and  smoke  a  pipe  with  me  in  my  garden.  The 
twain  love  and  respect  each  other,  but  they  regard 
the  world  from  diff"erent  points  of  view,  and  I  am 
now  and  again  made  witness  of  a  good-humoured 
passage  of  arms.  The  clergyman  is  old,  unmarried, 
and  a  humorist.  His  sallies  and  his  gentle 
eccentricities  seldom  provoke  laughter,  but  they 
are  continually  awakening  the  pleasantest  smiles. 
Perhaps  what  he  has  seen  of  the  world,  its  sins,  its 
sorrows,  its  deathbeds,  its  widows  and  orphans, 
has  tamed  his  spirit,  and  put  a  tenderness  into  his 
wit.  I  do  not  think  I  have  ever  encountered  a 
man  who  so  adorns  his  sacred  profession.  His 
pious,  devout  nature  produces  sermons  just  as 
naturally  as  my  apple  trees  produce  apples.  He  is 
a  tree  that  flowers  every  Sunday.  Very  beautiful 
is  his  reverence  for  the  Book,  his  trust  in  it; 
through  long  acquaintance,  its  ideas  have  come  to 
colour  his  entire  thought,  and  you  come  upon  its 
phrases  in  his  ordinary  speech.  He  is  more 
himself  in  the  pulpit  than  anywhere  else,  and  you 
get  nearer  him  in  his  sermons  than  you  do  sitting 
with  him  at  his  tea-table,  or  walking  with  him  on 
the  country  roads.  He  does  not  feel  confined  in 
his  orthodoxy ;  in  it  he  is  free  as  a  bird  in  the  air. 


248  BOOKS  AND  GARDENS 

The  doctor  is,  I  conceive,  as  good  a  Christian  as 
the  clergyman,  but  he  is  impatient  of  pale  or  limit ; 
he  never  comes  to  a  fence  without  feeling  a  desire 
to  get  over  it.  He  is  a  great  hunter  of  insects,  and 
he  thinks  that  the  wings  of  his  butterflies  might 
yield  very  excellent  texts ;  he  is  fond  of  geology, 
and  cannot,  especially  when  he  is  in  the  company 
of  the  clergyman,  resist  the  temptation  of  hurling 
a  fossil  at  Moses.  He  wears  his  scepticism  as  a 
coquette  wears  her  ribands — to  annoy  if  he  cannot 
subdue — and  when  his  purpose  is  served,  he  puts 
his  scepticism  aside — as  the  coquette  puts  her 
ribands.  Great  arguments  arise  between  them, 
and  the  doctor  loses  his  field  through  his  loss 
of  temper,  which,  however,  he  regains  before 
any  harm  is  done.  For  the  worthy  man  is 
irascible  withal,  and  opposition  draws  fire  from 
him. 

After  an  outburst,  there  is  a  truce  between  the 
friends  for  a  while,  till  it  is  broken  by  theological 
battle  over  the  age  of  the  world,  or  some  other 
the  like  remote  matter,  which  seems  important  to 
me  only  in  so  far  as  it  affords  ground  for  disputa- 
tion. These  truces  are  broken  sometimes  by  the 
doctor,  sometimes  by  the  clergyman.  T'other 
evening  the  doctor  and  myself  were  sitting  in  the 
garden,  smoking  each  a  meditative  pipe.  Dream- 
thorp  lay  below,  with  its  old  castle  and  its  lake, 
and  its  hundred  wreaths  of  smoke  floating  upward 
into  the  sunset.  Where  we  sat  the  voices  of 
children  playing  in  the  street  could  hardly  reach 
us.  Suddenly  a  step  was  heard  on  the  gravel,  and 
the  next  moment  the  clergyman  appeared,  as  it 


BOOKS  AND  GARDENS  249 

seemed  to  me,  with  a  peculiar  airiness  of  aspect, 
and  the  light  of  a  humorous  satisfaction  in  his  eye. 
After  the  usual  salutations,  he  took  his  seat  beside 
us,  lifted  a  pipe  of  the  kind  called  "church- 
warden" from  the  box  on  the  ground,  filled  and 
lighted  it,  and  for  a  little  while  we  were  silent  all 
three.  The  clergyman  then  drew  an  old  magazine 
from  his  side  pocket,  opened  it  at  a  place  where 
the  leaf  had  been  carefully  turned  down,  and  drew 
my  attention  to  a  short  poem,  which  had  for  its 
title,  "Vanity  Fair,"  imprinted  in  German  text. 
This  poem  he  desired  me  to  read  aloud.  Laying 
down  my  pipe  carefully  beside  me,  I  complied 
with  his  request.  It  ran  thus,  for,  as  after  my 
friends  went  it  was  left  behind,  I  have  written  it 
down  word  for  word : 

"The  world-old  Fair  of  Vanity 

Since  Bunyan's  day  has  grown  discreeter: 
No  more  it  flocks  in  crowds  to  see 
A  blazing  Paul  or  Peter. 

"Not  that  a  single  inch  it  swerves 

From  hate  of  saint,  or  love  of  sinner; 
But  martyrs  shock  aesthetic  nerves, 
And  spoil  the  goUt  of  dinner. 

"Raise  but  a  shout,  or  flaunt  a  scarf — 
Its  mobs  are  all  agog  and  flying ; 
They'll  cram  the  levee  of  a  dwarf, 
And  leave  a  Haydon  dying. 

"They  live  upon  each  newest  thing, 
They  fill  their  idle  days  with  seeing : 
Fresh  news  of  courtier  and  of  king 
Sustains  their  empty  being. 


250  BOOKS  AND  GARDENS 

"The  statelier,  from  year  to  year. 

Maintain  their  comfortable  stations 
At  the  wide  windows  that  o'erpeer 
The  public  square  of  nations ; 

"While  through  it  heaves,  with  cheers  and  groans, 
Harsh  drums  of  battle  in  the  distance. 
Frightful  with  gallows,  ropes,  and  thrones, 
The  medley  of  existence ; 

*' Amongst  them  tongues  are  wagging  much: 
Hark  to  the  philosophic  sisters  ! 
To  his,  whose  keen  satiric  touch, 
'     Like  the  Medusa,  blisters  ! 

"All  things  are  made  for  talk — St.  Paul — 
The  pattern  of  an  altar  cushion — 
A  Paris  wild  with  carnival. 
Or  red  with  revolution. 

*'  And  much  they  knew,  that  sneering  crew, 
Of  things  above  the  world  and  under : 
They  search'd  the  hoary  deep ;  they  knew 
The  secret  of  the  thunder ; 

*'The  pure  white  arrow  of  the  light 
They  split  into  its  colours  seven ; 
They  weigh 'd  the  sun ;  they  dwelt,  like  night. 
Among  the  stars  of  heaven ; 

*' They've  found  out  life  and  death — the  first 
Is  known  but  to  the  upper  classes — 
The  second,  pooh  !  'tis  at  the  worst 
A  dissolution  into  gases ; 

*'And  vice  and  virtue  are  akin 

As  black  and  white  from  Adam  issue — 
One  flesh,  one  blood,  though  sheeted  in 
A  different  colour'd  tissue. 


BOOKS  AND  GARDENS  251 

"Their  science  groped  from  star  to  star, 

But  than  herself  found  nothing  greater — 
What  wonder?  in  a  Leyden  jar 
They  bottled  the  Creator, 

*'  Fires  flutter'd  on  their  lightning-rod ; 

They  clear'd  the  human  mind  from  error ; 
They  emptied  heaven  of  its  God, 
And  Tophet  of  its  terror. 

"  Better  the  savage  in  his  dance 

Than  these  acute  and  syllogistic ! 
Better  a  reverent  ignorance 
Than  knowledge  atheistic ! 

"  Have  they  dispell'd  one  cloud  that  lowers 
So  darkly  on  the  human  creature  ? 
They  with  their  irreligious  powers 
Have  subjugated  nature. 

"But  as  a  satyr  wins  the  charms 
Of  maiden  in  a  forest  hearted — 
Who  finds,  when  clasp'd  within  his  arms, 
The  outraged  soul  departed." 

When  I  had  done  reading  these  verses,  the 
clergyman  glanced  slyly  along  to  see  the  effect  of 
his  shot.  The  doctor  drew  two  or  three  hurried 
whiffs,  gave  a  huge  grunt  of  scorn,  then  turning 
sharply,  asked,  "  What  is  '  a  reverent  ignorance  ? ' 
What  is  *a  knowledge  atheistic'?"  The  clergy- 
man, skewered  by  the  sudden  question,  wriggled 
a  little,  and  then  began  to  explain — with  no  great 
heart,  however,  for  he  had  had  his  little  joke  out, 
and  did  not  care  to  carry  it  further.  The  doctor 
listened  for  a  little,  and  then,  laying  down  his 
pipe,  said  with  some  heat,  "  It  won't  do.    *  Reverent 


252  BOOKS  AND  GARDENS 

ignorance'  and  such  trash  is  a  mere  jingle  of 
words :  that  you  know  as  well  as  I.  You  stumbled 
on  these  verses,  and  brought  them  up  here  to 
throw  them  at  me.  They  don't  harm  me  in  the 
least,  I  can  assure  you.  There  is  no  use,"  con- 
tinued the  doctor,  mollifying  at  the  sight  of  his 
friend's  countenance,  and  seeing  how  the  land 
lay — "  there  is  no  use  speaking  on  such  matters  to 
our  incurious,  solitary  friend  here,  who  could  bask 
comfortably  in  sunshine  for  a  century,  without 
once  inquiring  whence  came  the  light  and  heat. 
But  let  me  tell  you,"  lifting  his  pipe  and  shaking 
it  across  me  at  the  clergyman,  "  that  science  has 
done  services  to  your  cloth  which  have  not  always 
received  the  most  grateful  acknowledgments. 
Why,  man,"  here  he  began  to  fill  his  pipe  slowly, 
"  the  theologian  and  the  man  of  science,  although 
they  seem  to  diverge  and  lose  sight  of  each  other, 
are  all  the  while  working  to  one  end.  Two 
exploring  parties  in  Australia  set  out  from  one 
point;  the  one  goes  east  and  the  other  west. 
They  lose  sight  of  each  other — they  know  nothing 
of  one  another's  whereabouts — but  they  are  all 
steering  to  one  point " — the  sharp  spurt  of  a  fusee 
on  the  garden  seat  came  in  here,  followed  by  an 
aromatic  flavour  in  the  air — "and  when  they  do 
meet,  which  they  are  certain  to  do  in  the  long 
run  " — here  the  doctor  put  the  pipe  in  his  mouth, 
and  finished  his  speech  with  it  there — "  the  figure 
of  the  continent  has  become  known,  and  may  be 
set  down  in  maps.  The  exploring  parties  have 
started  long  ago.  What  folly  in  the  one  to  pooh- 
pooh,   or  be  suspicious  of  the  exertions  of  the 


BOOKS  AND  GARDENS  253 

other.  That  party  deserves  the  greatest  credit 
which  meets  the  other  more  than  half  way." — 
"  Bravo  ! "  cried  the  clergyman,  when  the  doctor 
had  finished  his  oration ;  "I  don't  know  that  I 
could  fill  your  place  at  the  bedside,  but  I  am 
quite  sure  that  you  could  fill  mine  in  the  pulpit." 
— "I  am  not  sure  that  the  congregation  would 
approve  of  the  change — I  might  disturb  their 
slumbers;"  and,  pleased  with  his  retort,  his 
cheery  laugh  rose  through  a  cloud  of  smoke  into 
the  sunset. 

Heigho !  mine  is  a  dull  life,  I  fear,  when  this 
little  affair  of  the  doctor  and  the  clergyman  takes 
the  dignity  of  an  incident,  and  seems  worthy  of 
being  recorded. 

The  doctor  was  anxious  that,  during  the  follow- 
ing winter,  a  short  course  of  lectures  should  be 
delivered  in  the  village  schoolroom,  and  in  my 
garden  he  held  several  conferences  on  the  matter 
with  the  clergyman  and  myself.  It  was  arranged 
finally  that  the  lectures  should  be  delivered,  and 
that  one  of  them  should  be  delivered  by  me.  I 
need  not  say  how  pleasant  was  the  writing  out  of 
my  discourse,  and  how  the  pleasure  was  heightened 
by  the  slightest  thrill  of  alarm  at  my  own  temerity. 
My  lecture  I  copied  out  in  my  most  careful  hand, 
and  as  I  had  it  by  heart,  I  used  to  declaim 
passages  of  it  ensconced  in  my  mosshouse,  or 
concealed  behind  my  shrubbery  trees.  In  these 
places  I  tried  it  all  over  sentence  by  sentence. 
The  evening  came  at  last  which  had  been  looked 
forward  to  for  a  couple  of  months  or  more.  The 
small   schoolroom  was  filled  by  forms  on  which 


254  BOOKS  AND  GARDENS 

the  people  sat,  and  a  small  reading-desk,  with  a 
tumbler  of  water  on  it,  at  the  farther  end,  waited 
for  me.  When  I  took  my  seat,  the  couple  of 
hundred  eyes  struck  into  me  a  certain  awe.  I 
discovered  in  a  moment  why  the  orator  of  the 
hustings  is  so  deferential  to  the  mob.  You  may 
despise  every  individual  member  of  your  audience, 
but  these  despised  individuals,  in  their  capacity 
of  a  collective  body,  overpower  you.  I  addressed 
the  people  with  the  most  unfeigned  respect.  When 
I  began,  too,  I  found  what  a  dreadful  thing  it  is  to 
hear  your  own  voice  inhabiting  the  silence.  You 
are  related  to  your  voice,  and  yet  divorced  from  it. 
It  is  you,  and  yet  a  thing  apart.  All  the  time  it  is 
going  on,  you  can  be  critical  as  to  its  tone,  volume, 
cadence,  and  other  qualities,  as  if  it  was  the  voice  of 
a  stranger.  Gradually,  however,  I  got  accustomed 
to  my  voice,  and  the  respect  which  I  entertained 
for  my  hearers  so  far  relaxed  that  I  was  at  last  able 
to  look  them  in  the  face.  I  saw  the  doctor  and  the 
clergyman  smile  encouragingly,  and  my  half-witted 
gardener  looking  up  at  me  with  open  mouth,  and 
the  atrabilious  confectioner  clap  his  hands,  which 
made  me  take  refuge  in  my  paper  again.  I  got 
to  the  end  of  my  task  without  any  remarkable 
incident,  if  I  except  the  doctor's  once  calling  out 
"  hear "  loudly,  which  brought  the  heart  into  my 
mouth,  and  blurred  half  a  sentence.  When  I  sat 
down,  there  were  the  usual  sounds  of  approbation, 
and  the  confectioner  returned  thanks  in  the  name 
of  the  audience. 


ON  VAGABONDS. 

BEING  A  DISCOURSE  DELIVERED  BEFORE  THE 
DREAMTHORP  LITERARY  INSTITUTE,  SESSION 
1862-63. 

CALL  it  oddity,  eccentricity,  humour,  or  what 
you  please,  it  is  evident  that  the  special 
flavour  of  mind  or  manner,  which,  independently 
of  fortune,  station,  or  profession,  sets  a  man  apart 
and  makes  him  distinguishable  from  his  fellows, 
and  which  gives  the  charm  of  picturesqueness  to 
society,  is  fast  disappearing  from  amongst  us.  A 
man  may  count  the  odd  people  of  his  acquaintance 
on  his  fingers ;  and  it  is  observable  that  these  odd 
people  are  generally  well  stricken  in  years.  They 
belong  more  to  the  past  generation  than  to  the 
present.  Our  young  men  are  terribly  alike.  For 
these  many  years  back  the  young  gentlemen  I  have 
had  the  fortune  to  encounter  are  clever,  knowing, 
selfish,  disagreeable;  the  young  ladies  are  of  one 
pattern,  like  minted  sovereigns  of  the  same  reign — 
excellent  gold,  I  have  no  doubt,  but  each  bearing 
the  same  awfully  proper  image  and  superscription. 
There  are  no  blanks  in  the  matrimonial  lottery 
255 


256  ON  VAGABONDS 

nowadays,  but  the  prizes  are  all  of  a  value,  and 
there  is  but  one  kind  of  article  given  for  the  ticket. 
Courtship  is  an  absurdity,  and   a   sheer  waste  of 
time.     If  a  man  could  but  close  his  eyes  in  a 
ballroom,  dash   into  a   bevy  of  muslin  beauties, 
carry  off  the  fair  one  that  accident  gives   to   his 
arms,  his   raid   would   be   as   reasonable  and   as 
likely  to  produce  happiness  as  the  more  ordinary 
methods  of  procuring  a  spouse.     If  a  man   has 
to   choose   one  guinea   out   of  a   bag  containing 
one  hundred  and  fifty,  what  can  he  do?     What 
wonderful  wisdom  can  he  display  in  his  choice? 
There  is  no  appreciable  difference  of  value  in  the 
golden   pieces.      The    latest    coined   are  a  little 
fresher,   that's   all.      An   act   of  uniformity,   with 
heavy  penalties  for  recusants,  seems  to  have  been 
passed  upon  the  English  race.     That  we  can  quite 
well  account  for  this  state  of  things,  does  not  make 
the  matter  better,  does  not  make  it  the  less  our 
4uty  to  fight  against  it.     We  are  apt  to  be  told 
that  men   are   too   busy  and   women  too  accom- 
plished  for  humour   of  speech   or   originality  of 
character  or  manner.     In  the  truth   of  this   lies 
the  pity  of  it.     If,  with  the  exceptions  of  hedges 
that  divide  fields,  and  streams  that  run  as  marches 
between  farms,  every  inch   of  soil  were  drained, 
ploughed,   manured,    and    under    that    improved 
■cultivation   rushing  up   into   astonishing  wheaten 
and  oaten  crops,  enriching  tenant  and  proprietor, 
the  aspect   of  the   country   would   be   decidedly 
uninteresting,  and  would  present  scant  attraction 
to  the  man  riding  or  walking  through  it.     In  such 
a  world  the  tourists  would  be  few.     Personally,  I 


ON  VAGABONDS  257 

should  detest  a  world  all  red  and  ruled  with  the 
ploughshare  in  spring,  all  covered  with  harvest  in 
autumn.  I  wish  a  little  variety.  I  desiderate 
moors  and  barren  places ;  the  copse  where  you 
can  flush  the  woodcock ;  the  warren  where,  when 
you  approach,  you  can  see  the  twinkle  of  in- 
numerable rabbit  tails ;  and,  to  tell  the  truth, 
would  not  feel  sorry  although  Reynard  himself 
had  a  hole  beneath  the  wooded  bank,  even  if 
the  demands  of  his  rising  family  cost  Farmer 
Yellowleas  a  fat  capon  or  two  in  the  season.  The 
fresh,  rough,  heathery  parts  of  human  nature,  where 
the  air  is  freshest,  and  where  the  linnets  sing,  is 
getting  encroached  upon  by  cultivated  fields. 
Every  one  is  making  himself  and  herself  useful. 
Every  one  is  producing  something.  Everybody 
is  clever.  Everybody  is  a  philanthropist.  I  don't 
like  it.  I  love  a  little  eccentricity.  I  respect 
honest  prejudices.  I  admire  foolish  enthusiasm 
in  a  young  head  better  than  a  wise  scepticism. 
It  is  high  time,  it  seems  to  me,  that  a  moral 
game  law  were  passed  for  the  preservation  of  the 
wild  and  vagrant  feelings  of  human  nature. 

I  have  advertised  myself  to  speak  of  vagabonds^ 
and  I  must  explain  what  I  mean  by  the  term.  We 
all  know  what  was  the  doom  of  the  first  child  born 
of  man,  and  it  is  needless  for  me  to  say  that  I  do 
not  wish  the  spirit  of  Cain  more  widely  diffused 
amongst  my  fellow-creatures.  By  vagabond,  I  do 
not  mean  a  tramp,  or  a  gipsy,  or  a  thimblerigger, 
or  a  brawler  who  is  brought  up  with  a  black  eye 
before  a  magistrate  of  a  morning.  The  vagabond 
as  I  have  him  in  my  mind's  eye,  and  whom  I  dearly 
17 


258  ON  VAGABONDS 

love,  comes  out  of  quite  a  different  mould.  The 
man  I  speak  of  seldom,  it  is  true,  attains  to  the 
dignity  of  a  churchwarden ;  he  is  never  found 
sitting  at  a  reformed  town-council  board;  he  has 
a  horror  of  public  platforms ;  he  never  by  any 
chance  heads  a  subscription-list  with  a  donation 
of  fifty  pounds.  On  the  other  hand,  he  is  very 
far  from  being  a  "ne'er-do-weel,"  as  the  Scotch 
phrase  it,  or  an  imprudent  person.  He  does  not 
play  at  "  Aunt  Sally "  on  a  public  racecourse ;  he 
does  not  wrench  knockers  from  the  doors  of 
slumbering  citizens ;  he  has  never  seen  the  interior 
of  a  police  cell.  It  is  quite  true,  he  has  a  peculiar 
way  of  looking  at  many  things.  If,  for  instance, 
he  is  brought  up  with  Cousin  Milly,  and  loves  her 
dearly,  and  the  childish  affection  grows  up  and 
strengthens  in  the  woman's  heart,  and  there  is  a 
fair  chance  for  them  fighting  the  world  side  by  side, 
he  marries  her  without  too  curiously  considering 
whether  his  income  will  permit  him  to  give  dinner- 
parties, and  otherwise  fashionably  see  his  friends. 
Very  imprudent,  no  doubt.  But  you  cannot 
convince  my  vagabond.  With  the  strangest  logical 
twist,  which  seems  natural  to  him,  he  conceives 
that  he  marries  for  his  own  sake,  and  not  for  the 
sake  of  his  acquaintances,  and  that  the  possession 
of  a  loving  heart  and  a  conscience  void  of  reproach, 
is  worth,  at  any  time,  an  odd  sovereign  in  his 
pocket.  The  vagabond  is  not  a  favourite  with  the 
respectable  classes.  He  is  particularly  feared  by 
mammas  who  have  daughters  to  dispose  of — not 
that  he  is  a  bad  son,  or  likely  to  prove  a  bad 
husband,  or  a  treacherous  friend,  but   somehow 


ON  VAGABONDS  259 

gold  does  not  stick  to  his  fingers  as  it  does  to  the 
fingers  of  some  men.  He  is  regardless  of  appear- 
ances. He  chooses  his  friends  neither  for  their  fine 
houses  nor  their  rare  wines,  but  for  their  humours, 
their  goodness  of  heart,  their  capacities  of  making 
a  joke  and  of  seeing  one,  and  for  their  abilities, 
unknown  often  as  the  woodland  violet,  but  not  the 
less  sweet  for  obscurity.  As  a  consequence  his 
acquaintance  is  miscellaneous,  and  he  is  often  seen 
at  other  places  than  rich  men's  feasts.  I  do  believe 
he  is  a  gainer  by  reason  of  his  vagrant  ways.  He 
comes  in  contact  with  the  queer  corners  and  the 
out-of-the-way  places  of  human  life.  He  knows 
more  of  our  common  nature,  just  as  the  man  who 
walks  through  a  country,  and  who  strikes  off  the 
main  road  now  and  then  to  visit  a  ruin,  or  a 
legendary  cairn  of  stones,  who  drops  into  village 
inns,  and  talks  with  the  people  he  meets  on  the 
road,  becomes  better  acquainted  with  it  than  the 
man  who  rolls  haughtily  along  the  turnpike  in  a 
carriage-and-four.  We  lose  a  great  deal  by  foolish 
hauteur.  No  man  is  worth  much  who  has  not  a 
touch  of  the  vagabond  in  him.  Could  I  have 
visited  London  thirty  years  ago,  I  would  rather 
have  spent  an  hour  with  Charles  Lamb  than  with 
any  other  of  its  residents.  He  was  a  fine  specimen 
of  the  vagabond,  as  I  conceive  him.  His  mind 
was  as  full  of  queer  nooks  and  tortuous  passages  as 
any  mansion-house  of  Elizabeth's  day  or  earlier, 
where  the  rooms  are  cosy,  albeit  a  little  low  in  the 
roof;  where  dusty  stained  lights  are  falling  on  old 
oaken  panellings ;  where  every  bit  of  furniture  has  a 
reverend  flavour  of  ancientness ;  where  portraits  of 


26o  ON  VAGABONDS 

noble  men  and  women,  all  dead  long  ago,  are 
hanging  on  the  walls ;  and  where  a  black-letter 
Chaucer  with  silver  clasps  is  lying  open  on  a  seat  in 
the  window.  There  was  nothing  modern  about 
him.  The  garden  of  his  mind  did  not  flaunt  in 
gay  parterres  ;  it  resembled  those  that  Cowley  and 
Evelyn  delighted  in,  with  clipped  trees,  and  shaven 
lawns,  and  stone  satyrs,  and  dark,  shadowing  yews, 
and  a  sun-dial  with  a  Latin  motto  sculptured  on  it, 
standing  at  the  farther  end.  Lamb  was  the  slave 
of  quip  and  whimsey :  he  stuttered  out  puns  to  the 
detriment  of  all  serious  and  improving  conversation, 
and  twice  or  so  in  the  year  he  was  overtaken  in 
liquor.  Well,  in  spite  of  these  things,  perhaps  on 
account  of  these  things,  I  love  his  memory.  For 
love  and  charity  ripened  in  that  nature  as  peaches 
ripen  on  the  wall  that  fronts  the  sun.  Although  he 
did  not  blow  his  trumpet  in  the  corners  of  the 
streets,  he  was  tried,  as  few  men  are,  and  fell  not. 
He  jested  that  he  might  not  weep.  He  wore  a 
martyr's  heart  beneath  his  suit  of  motley.  And 
only  years  after  his  death,  when  to  admiration  or 
censure  he  was  alike  insensible,  did  the  world  know 
his  story,  and  that  of  his  sister  Mary. 

Ah  me !  what  a  world  this  was  to  live  in  two 
or  three  centuries  ago,  when  it  was  getting  itself 
discovered — when  the  sunset  gave  up  America, 
when  a  steel  hand  had  the  spoiling  of  Mexico  and 
Peru !  Then  were  the  Arabian  Nights  common- 
place, enchantments  a  matter  of  course,  and 
romance  the  most  ordinary  thing  in  the  world. 
Then  man  was  courting  Nature,  now  he  has  married 
her.     Every  mystery  is  dissipated.     The  planet  is 


ON  VAGABONDS  261 

familiar  as  the  trodden  pathway  running  between 
towns.  We  no  longer  gaze  wistfully  to  the  west, 
dreaming  of  the  Fortunate  Isles.  We  seek  our 
wonders  now  on  the  ebbed  seashore ;  we  discover 
our  new  worlds  with  the  microscope.  Yet,  for  all 
that  time  has  brought  and  taken  away,  I  am  glad 
to  know  that  the  vagabond  sleeps  in  our  blood  and 
awakes  now  and  then.  Overlay  human  nature  as 
you  please,  here  and  there  some  bit  of  rock,  or 
mound  of  aboriginal  soil,  will  crop  out  with  the 
vrild  flowers  growing  upon  it,  sweetening  the  air. 
When  the  boy  throws  his  Delectus  or  his  Euclid 
aside,  and  takes  passionately  to  the  reading  of 
Robinson  Crusoe  or  Bruce's  African  Travels,  do 
not  shake  your  head  despondingly  over  him  and 
prophesy  evil  issues.  Let  the  wild  hawk  try  its 
wings.  It  will  be  hooded,  and  will  sit  quietly 
enough  on  the  falconer's  perch  ere  long.  Let  the 
wild  horse  career  over  its  boundless  pampas ;  the 
jerk  of  the  lasso  will  bring  it  down  soon  enough. 
Soon  enough  will  the  snaffle  in  the  mouth  and  the 
spur  of  the  tamer  subdue  the  high  spirit  to  the 
bridle,  or  the  carriage-trace.  Perhaps  not,  and  if 
so,  the  better  for  all  parties.  Once  more  there  will 
be  a  new  man  and  new  deeds  in  the  world.  For 
Genius  is  a  vagabond.  Art  is  a  vagabond,  Enterprise 
is  a  vagabond.  Vagabonds  have  moulded  the 
world  into  its  present  shape ;  they  have  made  the 
houses  in  which  we  dwell,  the  roads  on  which  we 
ride  and  drive,  the  very  laws  that  govern  us. 
Respectable  people  swarm  in  the  track  of  the 
vagabond  as  rooks  in  the  track  of  the  ploughshare. 
Respectable  people  do  little  in  the  world  except 


262  ON  VAGABONDS 

storing  wine-cellars  and  amassing  fortunes  for  the 
benefit  of  spendthrift  heirs.  Respectable  well-to- 
do  Grecians  shook  their  heads  over  Leonidas  and 
his  three  hundred  when  they  went  down  to 
Thermopylae.  Respectable  Spanish  churchmen 
with  shaven  crowns  scouted  the  dream  of  Columbus. 
Respectable  German  folks  attempted  to  dissuade 
Luther  from  appearing  before  Charles  and  the 
princes  and  electors  of  the  empire,  and  were 
scandalised  when  he  declared  that  "  were  there  as 
many  devils  in  Worms  as  there  were  tiles  on  the 
housetops,  still  would  he  on."  Nature  makes  us 
vagabonds,  the  world  makes  us  respectable. 

In  the  fine  sense  in  which  I  take  the  word,  the 
English  are  the  greatest  vagabonds  on  the  earth, 
and  it  is  the  healthiest  trait  in  their  national 
character.  The  first  fine  day  in  spring  awakes 
the  gipsy  in  the  blood  of  the  English  workman, 
and  incontinently  he  "babbles  of  green  fields." 
On  the  English  gentleman,  lapped  in  the  most 
luxurious  civilisation,  and  with  the  thousand 
powers  and  resources  of  wealth  at  his  command, 
descends  oftentimes  a  fierce  unrest,  a  Bedouin- 
like horror  of  cities  and  the  cry  of  the  money- 
changer, and  in  a  month  the  fiery  dust  rises  in 
the  track  of  his  desert  steed,  or  in  the  six  months' 
polar  midnight  he  hears  the  big  wave  clashing  on 
the  icy  shore.  The  close  presence  of  the  sea  feeds 
the  Englishman's  restlessness.  She  takes  posses- 
sion of  his  heart  like  some  fair  capricious  mistress. 
Before  the  boy  awakes  to  the  beauty  of  Cousin 
Mary,  he  is  crazed  by  the  fascinations  of  ocean. 
With  her  voices  of  ebb  and  flow  she  weaves  her 


ON  VAGABONDS  263 

siren  song  round  the  Englishman's  coasts  day 
and  night.  Nothing  that  dwells  on  land  can  keep 
from  her  embrace  the  boy  who  has  gazed  upon 
her  dangerous  beauty,  and  who  has  heard  her 
singing  songs  of  foreign  shores  at  the  foot  of  the 
summer  crag.  It  is  well  that  in  the  modern 
gentleman  the  fierce  heart  of  the  Berserker  lives 
yet.  The  English  are  eminently  a  nation  of 
vagabonds.  The  sun  paints  English  faces  with 
all  the  colours  of  his  climes.  The  Englishman 
is  ubiquitous.  He  shakes  with  fever  and  ague 
in  the  swampy  valley  of  the  Mississippi;  he  is 
drowned  in  the  sand  pillars  as  they  waltz  across 
the  desert  on  the  purple  breath  of  the  simoom ; 
he  stands  on  the  icy  scalp  of  Mont  Blanc ;  his  fly 
falls  in  the  sullen  Norwegian  fiords ;  he  invades 
the  solitude  of  the  Cape  Hon;  he  rides  on  his 
donkey  through  the  uncausewayed  Cairo  streets. 
That  wealthy  people,  under  a  despotism,  should 
be  travellers  seems  a  natural  thing  enough.  It 
is  a  way  of  escape  from  the  rigours  of  their 
condition.  But  that  England — where  activity 
rages  so  keenly  and  engrosses  every  class ;  where 
the  prizes  of  Parliament,  literature,  commerce, 
the  bar,  the  church;  are  hungered  and  thirsted 
after ;  where  the  stress  and  intensity  of  life  ages 
a  man  before  his  time ;  where  so  many  of  the 
noblest  break  down  in  harness  hardly  half-way 
to  the  goal — should,  year  after  year,  send  off 
swarms  of  men  to  roam  the  world,  and  to  seek 
out  danger  for  the  mere  thrill  and  enjoyment  of 
it,  is  significant  of  the  indomitable  pluck  and 
spirit  of  the  race.     There  is  scant  danger  that  the 


264  ON  VAGABONDS 

rust  of  sloth  will  eat  into  the  virtue  of  English 
steel.  The  English  do  the  hard  work  and  the 
travelling  of  the  world.  The  least  revolutionary 
nation  of  Europe,  the  one  with  the  greatest 
temptations  to  stay  at  home,  with  the  greatest 
faculty  for  work,  with  perhaps  the  sincerest  regard 
for  wealth,  is  also  the  most  nomadic.  How  is 
this?  It  is  because  they  are  a  nation  of  vaga- 
bonds; they  have  the  "hungry  heart"  that  one 
of  their  poets  speaks  about. 

There  is  an  amiability  about  the  genuine 
vagabond  which  takes  captive  the  heart.  We  do 
not  love  a  man  for  his  respectability,  his  prudence 
and  foresight  in  business,  his  capacity  of  living 
within  his  income,  or  his  balance  at  his  banker's. 
We  all  admit  that  prudence  is  an  admirable 
virtue,  and  occasionally  lament,  about  Christmas, 
when  bills  fall  in,  that  we  do  not  inherit  it  in 
a  greater  degree.  But  we  speak  about  it  in  quite 
a  cool  way.  It  does  not  touch  us  with  enthusiasm. 
If  a  calculating  machine  had  a  hand  to  wring,  it 
would  find  few  to  wring  it  warmly.  The  things 
that  really  move  liking  in  human  beings  are  the 
gnarled  nodosities  of  character,  vagrant  humours, 
freaks  of  generosity,  some  little  unextinguishable 
spark  of  the  aboriginal  savage,  some  little  sweet 
savour  of  the  old  Adam.  It  is  quite  wonderful 
how  far  simple  generosity  and  kindliness  of  heart 
go  in  securing  affection;  and,  when  these  exist, 
what  a  host  of  apologists  spring  up  for  faults  and 
vices  even.  A  country  squire  goes  recklessly  to 
the  dogs,  yet  if  he  has  a  kind  word  for  his  tenant 
when   he   meets   him,   a    frank   greeting   for   the 


ON  VAGABONDS  265 

rustic  beauty  when  she  drops  a  curtsey  to  him 
on  the  highway,  he  hves  for  a  whole  generation 
in  an  odour  of  sanctity.  If  he  had  been  a  dis- 
dainful, hook-nosed  prime  minister,  who  had 
carried  his  country  triumphantly  through  some 
frightful  crisis  of  war,  these  people  would,  perhaps, 
never  have  been  aware  of  the  fact ;  and  most 
certainly  never  would  have  tendered  him  a  word 
of  thanks,  even  if  they  had.  When  that  important 
question,  "  Which  is  the  greatest  foe  to  the  public 
weal — the  miser  or  the  spendthrift  ?  "  is  discussed 
at  the  artisans'  debating  club,  the  spendthrift  has 
all  the  eloquence  on  his  side — the  miser  all  the 
votes.  The  miser's  advocate  is  nowhere,  and  he 
pleads  the  cause  of  his  client  with  only  half  his 
heart.  In  the  theatre,  Charles  Surface  is 
applauded,  and  Joseph  Surface  is  hissed.  The 
novel-reader's  affection  goes  out  to  Tom  Jones, 
his  hatred  to  Blifil.  Joseph  Surface  and  Blifil  are 
scoundrels,  it  is  true,  but  deduct  the  scoundrelism, 
let  Joseph  be  but  a  stale  proverb-monger  and 
Blifil  a  conceited  prig,  and  the  issue  remains  the 
same.  Good  humour  and  generosity  carry  the 
day  with  the  popular  heart  all  the  world  over. 
Tom  Jones  and  Charles  Surface  are  not  vagabonds 
to  my  taste.  They  were  shabby  fellows  both,  and 
were  treated  a  great  deal  too  well.  But  there  are 
other  vagabonds  whom  I  love,  and  whom  I  do 
well  to  love.  With  what  affection  do  I  follow 
little  Ishmael  and  his  broken-hearted  mother  out 
into  the  great  and  terrible  wilderness,  and  see 
them  faint  beneath  the  ardours  of  the  sunlight. 
And   we   feel   it  to  be   strict   poetic  justice   and 


266  ON  VAGABONDS 

compensation,  that  the  lad  so  driven  forth  from 
human  tents  should  become  the  father  of  wild 
Arabian  men,  to  whom  the  air  of  cities  is  poison, 
who  work  not  with  any  tool,  and  on  whose  limbs 
no  conqueror  has  ever  yet  been  able  to  rivet 
shackle  or  chain.  Then  there  are  Abraham's 
grand-children,  Jacob  and  Esau — the  former,  I 
confess,  no  favourite  of  mine.  His,  up  at  least  to 
his  closing  years,  when  parental  affection  and  strong 
sorrow  softened  him,  was  a  character  not  amiable. 
He  lacked  generosity,  and  had  too  keen  an  eye 
on  his  own  advancement.  He  did  not  inherit 
the  noble  strain  of  his  ancestors.  He  was  a 
prosperous  man ;  yet  in  spite  of  his  increase  in 
flocks  and  herds — in  spite  of  his  vision  of  the 
ladder  with  the  angels  ascending  and  decending 
upon  it — in  spite  of  the  success  of  his  beloved 
son — in  spite  of  the  weeping  and  lamentation 
of  the  Egyptians  at  his  death — in  spite  of  his 
splendid  funeral,  winding  from  the  city  by  the 
pyramid  and  the  sphinx — in  spite  of  all  these 
things,  I  would  rather  have  been  the  hunter  Esau, 
with  birthright  filched  away,  bankrupt  in  the 
promise,  rich  only  in  fleet  foot  and  keen  spear; 
for  he  carried  into  the  wilds  with  him  an 
essentially  noble  nature — no  brother  with  his 
mess  of  pottage  could  mulct  him  of  that.  And 
he  had  a  fine  revenge;  for  when  Jacob,  on  his 
journey,  heard  that  his  brother  was  near  with 
four  hundred  men,  and  made  division  of  his  flocks 
and  herds,  his  man-servants  and  maid-servants, 
impetuous  as  a  swollen  hill-torrent,  the  fierce  son 
of  the  desert,  baked  red  with  Syrian  light,  leaped 


ON  VAGABONDS  267 

down  upon  him,  and  fell  on  his  neck  and  wept. 
And  Esau  said,  "  What  meanest  thou  by  all  this 
drove  which  I  met  ?  "  And  Jacob  said,  "  These 
are  to  find  grace  in  the  sight  of  my  lord."  Then 
Esau  said,  "  I  have  enough,  my  brother ;  keep  that 
thou  hast  unto  thyself."  O  mighty  prince,  didst 
thou  remember  thy  mother's  guile,  the  skins  upon 
thy  hands  and  neck,  and  the  lie  put  upon  the 
patriarch,  as,  blind  with  years,  he  sat  up  in  his 
bed  snuffing  the  savoury  meat  ?  An  ugly  memory, 
I  should  fancy  ! 

Commend  me  to  Shakspeare's  vagabonds,  the 
most  delightful  in  the  world  !  His  sweet-blooded 
and  liberal  nature  blossomed  into  all  fine 
generosities  as  naturally  as  an  apple  bough  into 
pink  blossoms  and  odours.  Listen  to  Gonsalo 
talking  to  the  shipwrecked  Milan  nobles  camped 
for  the  night  in  Prospero's  isle,  full  of  sweet 
voices,  with  Ariel  shooting  through  the  enchanted 
air  like  a  falling  star : 

"Had  I  the  plantation  of  this  isle,  my  lord, 
I'  the  commonwealth  I  would  by  contraries 
Execute  all  things  ;  for  no  kind  of  traffic 
Would  I  admit ;  no  name  of  magistrate ; 
Letters  should  not  be  known  ;  riches,  poverty, 
And  use  of  service  none ;  contract,  succession, 
Bourne,  bound  of  land,  tilth,  title,  vineyard  none ; 
No  use  of  metal  coin,  or  wine,  or  oil ; 
No  occupation — all  men  idle — all  ! 
And  women  too,  but  innocent  and  pure ; 
No  sovereignty ; 

All  things  in  common  nature  should  produce, 
Without  sweat  or  endurance ;  treason,  felony, 
Sword,  pike,  knife,  gun,  or  need  of  any  engine 
Would  I  not  have ;  but  nature  would  bring  forth 


268  ON  VAGABONDS 

Of  its  own  kind  all  foison,  all  abundance, 
To  feed  my  innocent  people. 
I  would  with  such  perfection  govern,  sir. 
To  excel  the  golden  age." 

What  think  you  of  a  world  after  that  pattern  ? 
As  You  Like  It  is  a  vagabond  play,  and  verily, 
if  there  waved  in  any  wind  that  blows  a  forest 
peopled  like  Arden's,  with  an  exiled  king  drawing 
the  sweetest  humanest  lessons  from  misfortune; 
a  melancholy  Jacques,  stretched  by  the  river 
bank,  moralising  on  the  bleeding  deer;  a  fair 
Rosalind,  chanting  her  saucy  cuckoo  song;  fools 
like  Touchstone — not  like  those  of  our  acquaint- 
ance, my  friends;  and  the  whole  place,  from 
centre  to  circumference,  filled  with  mighty  oak 
boles,  all  carven  with  lovers'  names — if  such  a 
forest  waved  in  wind,  I  say,  I  would,  be  my 
worldly  prospects  what  they  might,  pack  up  at 
once,  and  cast  in  my  lot  with  that  vagabond 
company.  For  there  I  should  find  more  gallant 
courtesies,  finer  sentiments,  completer  innocence 
and  happiness,  more  wit  and  wisdom,  than  I  am 
like  to  do  here  even,  though  I  search  for  them 
from  shepherd's  cot  to  king's  palace.  Just  to 
think  how  those  people  lived !  Carelessly  as 
the  blossoming  trees,  happily  as  the  singing 
birds,  time  measured  only  by  the  patter  of  the 
acorn  on  the  fruitful  soil !  A  world  without 
debtor  or  creditor,  passing  rich,  yet  with  never 
a  doit  in  its  purse,  with  no  sordid  care,  no  regard 
for  appearances;  nothing  to  occupy  the  young 
but  love-making,  nothing  to  occupy  the  old  but 
perusing     the     "sermons     in    stones"    and   the 


ON  VAGABONDS  269 

musical  wisdom  which  dwells  in  *'  running 
brooks ! "  But  Arden  forest  draws  its  sus- 
tenance from  a  poet's  brain :  the  light  that 
sleeps  on  its  leafy  pillows  is  "the  light  that 
never  was  on  sea  or  shore."  We  but  please  and 
tantalise  ourselves  with  beautiful  dreams. 

The  children  of  the  brain  become  to  us  actual 
existences,  more  actual  indeed  than  the  people 
who  impinge  upon  us  in  the  street,  or  who  live 
next  door.  We  are  more  intimate  with  Shakspeare's 
men  and  women  than  we  are  with  our  contem- 
poraries, and  they  are,  on  the  whole,  better 
company.  They  are  more  beautiful  in  form  and 
feature,  and  they  express  themselves  in  a  way 
that  the  most  gifted  strive  after  in  vain.  What 
if  Shakspeare's  people  could  walk  out  of  the  play- 
books  and  settle  down  upon  some  spot  of  earth 
and  conduct  life  there !  There  would  be  found 
humanity's  whitest  wheat,  the  world's  unalloyed 
gold.  The  very  winds  could  not  visit  the  place 
roughly.  No  king's  court  could  present  you 
such  an  array.  Where  else  could  we  find  a 
philosopher  like  Hamlet?  a  friend  like  Antonio? 
a  witty  fellow  like  Mercutio  ?  where  else  Imogen's 
piquant  face?  Portia's  gravity  and  womanly 
sweetness?  Rosalind's  true  heart  and  silvery 
laughter  ?  Cordelia's  beauty  of  holiness  ?  These 
would  form  the  centre  of  the  court,  but  the 
purlieus,  how  many  coloured !  Malvolio  would 
walk  mincingly  in  the  sunshine  there;  Autolycus 
would  filch  purses.  Sir  Andrew  Aguecheek  and 
Sir  Toby  Belch  would  be  eternal  boon  com- 
panions.    And   as    Falstaff    sets    out    homeward 


270  ON  VAGABONDS 

from  the  tavern,  the  portly  knight  leading  the 
revellers  like  a  three-decker  a  line  of  frigates, 
they  are  encountered  by  Dogberry,  who  summons 
them  to  stand  and  answer  to  the  watch  as  they 
are  honest  men.  If  Mr.  Dickens's  characters 
were  gathered  together,  they  would  constitute  a 
town  populous  enough  to  send  a  representative 
to  Parliament.  Let  us  enter.  The  style  of 
architecture  is  unparalleled.  There  is  an  in- 
dividuality about  the  buildings.  In  some  obscure 
way  they  remind  one  of  human  faces.  There 
are  houses  sly-looking,  houses  wicked-looking, 
houses  pompous-looking.  Heaven  bless  us  !  what 
a  rakish  pump !  what  a  self-important  town-hall ! 
what  a  hard-hearted  prison !  The  dead  walls 
are  covered  with  advertisements  of  Mr.  Slearey's 
circus.  Newman  Noggs  comes  shambling  along. 
Mr.  and  the  Misses  Pecksniff  come  sailing  down 
the  sunny  side  of  the  street.  Miss  Mercy's 
parasol  is  gay;  papa's  neckcloth  is  white,  and 
terribly  starched.  Dick  Swiveller  leans  against 
a  wall,  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  a  primrose  held 
between  his  teeth,  contemplating  the  opera  of 
Punch  and  Judy,  which  is  being  conducted 
under  the  management  of  Messrs.  Codlin  and 
Short.  You  turn  a  corner  and  you  meet  the  cofifin 
of  little  Paul  Dombey  borne  along.  Who  would 
have  thought  of  encountering  a  funeral  in  this 
place  ?  In  the  afternoon  you  hear  the  rich  tones 
of  the  organ  from  Miss  La  Creevy's  first  floor,  for 
Tom  Pinch  has  gone  to  live  there  now;  and  as 
you  know  all  the  people  as  you  know  your  own 
brothers  and  sisters,  and  consequently  require  no 


ON  VAGABONDS  271 

letters  of  introduction,  you  go  up  and  talk  with 
the  dear  old  fellow  about  all  his  friends  and  your 
friends,  and  towards  evening  he  takes  your  arm, 
and  you  walk  out  to  see  poor  Nelly's  grave — a 
place  where  he  visits  often,  and  which  he  dresses 
with  flowers  with  his  own  hands.  I  know  this  is 
the  idlest  dreaming,  but  all  of  Os  have  a  sympathy 
with  the  creatures  of  the  drama  and  the  novel. 
Around  the  hardest  cark  and  toil  lies  the  imagina- 
tive world  of  the  poets  and  romancists,  and 
thither  we  sometimes  escape  to  snatch  a  mouthful 
of  serener  air.  There  our  best  lost  feelings  have 
taken  a  human  shape.  We  suppose  that  boyhood 
with  its  impulses  and  enthusiasms  has  subsided 
with  the  grey  cynical  man  whom  we  have  known 
these  many  years.  Not  a  bit  of  it.  It  has 
escaped  into  the  world  of  the  poet,  and  walks  a 
love-flushed  Romeo  in  immortal  youth.  We 
suppose  that  the  Mary  of  fifty  years  since,  the 
rose-bud  of  a  girl  that  crazed  our  hearts,  blossomed 
into  the  spouse  of  Jenkins,  the  stockbroker,  and 
is  now  a  grandmother.  Not  at  all.  She  is  Juliet 
leaning  from  the  balcony,  or  Portia  talking  on 
the  moonlight  lawns  at  Belmont.  There  walk 
the  shadows  of  our  former  selves.  All  that  Time 
steals  he  takes  thither ;  and  to  live  in  that  world 
is  to  live  in  our  lost  youth,  our  lost  generosities, 
illusions,  and  romances. 

In  middle-class  life,  and  in  the  professions, 
when  a  standard  or  ideal  is  tacitly  set  up,  to 
which  every  member  is  expected  to  conform 
on  pain  of  having  himself  talked  about,  and 
wise   heads  shaken  over  him,  the  quick  feelings 


272  ON  VAGABONDS 

of  the  vagabond  are  not  frequently  found.  Yet, 
thanks  to  Nature !  who  sends  her  leafage  and 
flowerage  up  through  all  kinds  of  debris,  and 
who  takes  a  blossomy  possession  of  ruined  walls 
and  desert  places,  it  is  never  altogether  dead. 
And  of  vagabonds  not  the  least  delightful  is  he 
who  retains  poetry  and  boyish  spirits  beneath 
the  crust  of  a  profession.  Mr.  Carlyle  commends 
"central  fire,"  and  very  properly  commends  it 
most  when  "well  covered  in."  In  the  case  of 
a  professional  man,  this  "central  fire"  does 
not  manifest  itself  in  wasteful  explosiveness,  but 
in  secret  genial  heat  visible  in  fruits  of  charity 
and  pleasant  humour.  The  physician  who  is 
a  humorist  commends  himself  doubly  to  a  sick- 
bed. His  patients  are  as  much  indebted  for 
their  cure  to  his  smile,  his  voice,  and  a  certain 
irresistible  healthfulness  that  surrounds  him, 
as  they  are  to  his  skill  and  his  prescriptions. 
The  lawyer  who  is  a  humorist  is  a  man  of  ten 
thousand.  How  easily  the  worldly-wise  face 
puckered  over  a  stiff  brief  relaxes  into  the  lines 
of  laughter.  He  sees  many  an  evil  side  of  human 
nature,  he  is  familiar  with  slanders  and  injustice, 
all  kinds  of  human  bitterness  and  falsity;  but 
neither  his  hand  nor  his  heart  becomes  "  embued 
with  that  it  works  in " ;  and  the  little  admixture 
of  acid,  inevitable  from  his  circumstances  and 
mode  of  life,  but  heightens  the  flavour  of  his 
humour.  But  of  all  humorists  of  the  professional 
class,  I  prefer  the  clergyman,  especially  if  he  is 
well  stricken  in  years,  and  has  been  anchored  all 
his   life   in   a  country   charge.     He    is   none    of 


ON  VAGABONDS  273 

your  loud  wits.  There  is  a  lady-like  delicacy 
in  his  mind,  a  constant  sense  of  his  holy  office, 
which  warn  him  off  dangerous  subjects.  This 
reserve,  however,  does  but  improve  the  quality 
of  his  mirth.  What  his  humour  loses  in  bold- 
ness it  gains  in  depth  and  slyness.  And  as  the 
good  man  has  seldom  the  opportunity  of  making 
a  joke,  or  of  procuring  an  auditor  who  can  under- 
stand one,  the  dewy  glitter  of  his  eyes,  as  you 
sit  opposite  him,  and  his  heartfelt  enjoyment 
of  the  matter  in  hand,  are  worth  going  a  con- 
siderable way  to  witness. 

It  is  not,  however,  in  the  professions  that  the 
vagabond  is  commonly  found.  Over  these  that 
awful  and  ubiquitous  female,  Mrs.  Grundy  — 
at  once  Fate,  Nemesis,  and  Fury  —  presides. 
The  glare  of  her  eye  is  professional  danger, 
the  pointing  of  her  finger  is  professional  death. 
When  she  utters  a  man's  name,  he  is  lost. 
The  true  vagabond  is  to  be  met  with  in 
other  walks  of  life — among  actors,  poets,  painters. 
These  may  grow  in  any  way  their  nature 
directs.  They  are  not  required  to  conform  to 
any  traditional  pattern.  With  regard  to  the 
respectabilities  and  the  "minor  morals,"  the 
world  permits  them  to  be  libertines.  Besides, 
it  is  a  temperament  peculiarly  sensitive,  or 
generous,  or  enjoying,  which  at  the  beginning 
impels  these  to  their  special  pursuits  j  and  that 
temperament,  like  everything  else  in  the  world, 
strengthens  with  use,  and  grows  with  what  it 
feeds  on.  We  look  upon  an  actor,  sitting 
amongst  ordinary  men  and  women,  with  a  certain 
18 


274  ON  VAGABONDS 

curiosity — we  regard  him  as  a  creature  from 
another  planet,  almost.  His  life  and  his  world 
are  quite  different  from  ours.  The  orchestra, 
the  footlights,  and  the  green  baize  curtain  divide 
us.  He  is  a  monarch  half  his  time — his  entrance 
and  his  exit  proclaimed  by  flourish  of  trumpet. 
He  speaks  in  blank  verse,  is  wont  to  take  his 
seat  at  gilded  banquets,  to  drink  nothing  out  of 
a  pasteboard  goblet.  The  actor's  world  has  a 
history  amusing  to  read,  and  lines  of  noble  and 
splendid  traditions,  stretching  back  to  charming 
Nelly's  time  and  earlier.  The  actor  has  strange 
experiences.  He  sees  the  other  side  of  the 
moon.  We  roar  at  Grimaldi's  funny  face:  he 
sees  the  lines  of  pain  in  it.  We  hear  Romeo 
wish  to  be  "a  glove  upon  that  hand,  that  he 
might  touch  that  cheek " :  three  miuutes  after- 
wards he  beholds  Romeo  refresh  himself  with 
a  pot  of  porter.  We  see  the  Moor,  who  "loved 
not  wisely  but  too  well,"  smother  Desdemona 
with  the  nuptial  bolster:  he  sees  them  sit  down 
to  a  hot  supper.  We  always  think  of  the  actor 
as  on  the  stage:  he  always  thinks  of  us  as  in 
the  boxes. 

In  justice  to  the  poets  of  the  present  day, 
it  may  be  noticed  that  they  have  improved 
on  their  brethren  in  Johnson's  time,  who  were, 
according  to  Lord  Macaulay,  hunted  by  bailiffs 
and  familiar  with  sponging-houses,  and  who, 
when  hospitably  entertained,  were  wont  to  dis- 
turb the  household  of  the  entertainer  by  roaring 
for  hot  punch  at  four  o'clock  in  the  morning. 
Since   that   period   the   poets   have   improved   in 


ON  VAGABONDS  275 

the  decencies  of  life :  they  wear  broadcloth, 
and  settle  their  tailors'  accounts  even  as  other 
men.  At  this  present  moment  her  Majesty's 
poets  are  perhaps  the  most  respectable  of  her 
Majesty's  subjects.  They  are  all  teetotalers; 
if  they  sin,  it  is  in  rhyme,  and  then  only  to  point 
a  moral.  In  past  days  the  poet  flew  from  flower 
to  flower  gathering  his  honey,  but  he  bore  a 
sting,  too,  as  the  rude  hand  that  touched  him 
could  testify.  He  freely  gathers  his  honey  as 
of  old,  but  the  satiric  sting  has  been  taken  away. 
He  lives  at  peace  with  all  men — his  brethren 
excepted.  About  the  true  poet  still  there  is 
something  of  the  ancient  spirit — the  old  "flash 
and  outbreak  of  the  fiery  mind" — the  old 
enthusiasm  and  dash  of  humorous  eccentricity. 
But  he  is  fast  disappearing  from  the  catalogue 
of  vagabonds — fast  getting  commonplace,  I  fear. 
Many  people  suspect  him  of  dulness.  Besides, 
such  a  crowd  of  well-meaning,  amiable,  most 
respectable  men  have  broken  down  of  late  years 
the  pales  of  Parnassus,  and  become  squatters 
on  the  sacred  mount,  that  the  claim  of  poets  to 
be  a  peculiar  people  is  getting  disallowed.  Never 
in  this  world's  history  were  they  so  numerous ; 
and  although  some  people  deny  that  they  are  poets, 
few  are  cantankerous  enough  or  intrepid  enough 
to  assert  that  they  are  vagabonds. 

The  painter  is  the  most  agreeable  of  vagabonds. 
His  art  is  a  pleasant  one :  it  demands  some  little 
manual  exertion,  and  it  takes  him  at  times  into 
the  open  air.  It  is  pleasant,  too,  in  this,  that 
lines  and  colours    are  so  much   more  palpable 


276  ON  VAGABONDS 

than  words,  and  the  appeal  of  his  work  to 
his  practised  eye  has  some  satisfaction  in  it.  He 
knows  what  he  is  about.  He  does  not  altogether 
lose  his  critical  sense,  as  the  poet  does,  when 
familiarity  stales  his  subject,  and  takes  the 
splendour  out  of  his  images.  Moreover,  his  work 
is  more  profitable  than  the  poet's.  I  suppose 
there  are  just  as  few  great  painters  at  the  present 
day  as  there  are  great  poets ;  yet  the  yearly  receipts 
of  the  artists  of  England  far  exceed  the  receipts 
of  the  singers.  A  picture  can  usually  be  painted 
in  less  time  than  a  poem  can  be  written.  A 
second-rate  picture  has  a  certain  market  value — 
its  frame  is  at  least  something.  A  second-rate 
poem  is  utterly  worthless,  and  no  one  will  buy  it 
on  account  of  its  binding.  A  picture  is  your  own 
exclusive  property :  it  is  a  costly  article  of  furniture. 
You  hang  it  on  your  walls  to  be  admired  by  all 
the  world.  Pictures  represent  wealth :  the  posses- 
sion of  them  is  a  luxury.  The  portrait-painter  is 
of  all  men  the  most  beloved.  You  sit  to  him 
willingly,  and  put  on  your  best  looks.  You  are 
inclined  to  be  pleased  with  his  work,  on  account 
of  the  strong  prepossession  you  entertain  for  his 
subject.  To  sit  for  one's  portrait  is  like  being 
present  at  one's  own  creation.  It  is  an  admirable 
excuse  for  egotism.  You  would  not  discourse  of 
the  falcon-like  curve  which  distinguishes  your  nose, 
or  the  sweet  serenity  of  your  reposing  lips,  or  the 
mildness  of  the  eye  that  spreads  a  light  over  your 
countenance,  in  the  presence  of  a  fellow-creature 
for  the  whole  world,  yet  you  do  not  hesitate  to 
express  the  most  favourable  opinion  of  the  features 


ON  VAGABONDS  277 

starting  out  on  you  from  the  wet  canvas.  The 
interest  the  painter  takes  in  his  task  flatters  you. 
And  when  the  sittings  are  over,  and  you  behold 
yourself  hanging  on  your  own  wall,  looking  as  if 
you  could  direct  kingdoms  or  lead  armies,  you 
feel  grateful  to  the  artist.  He  ministers  to  your 
self-love,  and  you  pay  him  his  hire  without  wincing. 
Your  heart  warms  towards  him  as  it  would  towards 
a  poet  who  addresses  you  in  an  ode  of  panegyric, 
the  kindling  terms  of  which — a  little  astonishing 
to  your  friends — you  believe  in  your  heart  of 
hearts  to  be  the  simple  truth,  and,  in  the  matter 
of  expression,  not  over-coloured  in  the  very  least. 
The  portrait-painter  has  a  shrewd  eye  for  character, 
and  is  usually  the  best  anecdote-monger  in  the 
world.  His  craft  brings  him  into  contact  with 
many  faces,  and  he  learns  to  compare  them 
curiously,  and  to  extract  their  meanings.  He  can 
interpret  wrinkles;  he  can  look  through  the  eyes 
into  the  man;  he  can  read  a  whole  foregone 
history  in  the  lines  about  the  mouth.  Besides, 
from  the  good  understanding  which  usually  exists 
between  the  artist  and  his  sitter,  the  latter  is 
inclined  somewhat  to  unbosom  himself;  little 
things  leak  out  in  conversation,  not  much  in 
themselves,  but  pregnant  enough  to  the  painter's 
sense,  who  pieces  them  together,  and  constitutes 
a  tolerably  definite  image.  The  man  who  paints 
your  face  knows  you  better  than  your  intimate 
friends  do,  and  has  a  clearer  knowledge  of  your 
amiable  weaknesses,  and  of  the  secret  motives 
which  influence  your  conduct,  than  you  oftentimes 
have   yourself.      A    good    portrait    is    a    kind    of 


278  ON  VAGABONDS 

biography,  and  neither  painter  nor  biographer  can 
carry  out  his  task  satisfactorily  unless  he  be 
admitted  behind  the  scenes.  I  think  that  the 
landscape-painter,  who  has  acquired  sufficient 
mastery  in  his  art  to  satisfy  his  own  critical  sense, 
and  who  is  appreciated  enough  to  find  purchasers, 
and  thereby  to  keep  the  wolf  from  the  door,  must 
be  of  all  mankind  the  happiest.  Other  men  live 
in  cities,  bound  down  to  some  settled  task  and 
order  of  life,  but  he  is  a  nomad,  and  wherever  he 
goes  "Beauty  pitches  her  tents  before  him."  He 
is  smitten  by  a  passionate  love  for  Nature,  and  is 
privileged  to  follow  her  into  her  solitary  haunts 
and  recesses.  Nature  is  his  mistress,  and  he  is 
continually  making  declarations  of  his  love.  When 
one  thinks  of  ordinary  occupations,  how  one 
envies  him,  flecking  his  oak  tree  bole  with  sunlight, 
tinging  with  rose  the  cloud  of  the  morning  in 
which  the  lark  is  hid,  making  the  sea's  swift  fringe 
of  foaming  lace  outspread  itself  on  the  level  sands, 
in  which  the  pebbles  gleam  for  ever  wet.  The 
landscape-painter's  memory  is  inhabited  by  the 
fairest  visions : — dawn  burning  on  the  splintered 
peaks  that  the  eagles  know,  while  the  valleys 
beneath  are  yet  filled  with  uncertain  light — the 
bright  blue  morn  stretching  over  miles  of  moor 
and  mountain — the  slow  up-gathering  of  the 
bellied  thundercloud — summer  lakes,  and  cattle 
knee-deep  in  them — rustic  bridges  for  ever  crossed 
by  old  women  in  scarlet  cloaks — old-fashioned 
waggons  resting  on  the  scrubby  common,  the 
waggoner  lazy  and  wayworn,  the  dog  couched  on 
the  ground,  its  tongue  hanging  out  in  the  heat — 


ON  VAGABONDS  279 

boats  drawn  up  on  the  shore  at  sunset ;  the  fisher's 
children  looking  seawards,  the  red  light  full  on 
their  dresses  and  faces;  farther  back,  a  clump  of 
cottages,  with  bait-baskets  about  the  door,  and 
the  smoke  of  the  evening  meal  coiling  up  into  the 
coloured  air.  These  things  are  for  ever  with  him. 
Beauty,  which  is  a  luxury  to  other  men,  is  his 
daily  food.  Happy  vagabond,  who  lives  the  whole 
summer  through  in  the  light  of  his  mistress's  face, 
and  who  does  nothing  the  whole  winter  except 
recall  the  splendour  of  her  smiles  ! 

The  vagabond,  as  I  have  explained  and 
sketched  him,  is  not  a  man  to  tremble  at,  or 
avoid  as  if  he  wore  contagion  in  his  touch.  He 
is  upright,  generous,  innocent,  is  conscientious 
in  the  performance  of  his  duties ;  and  if  a  little 
eccentric  and  fond  of  the  open  air,  he  is  full  of 
good  nature  and  mirthful  charity.  He  may  not 
make  money  so  rapidly  as  you  do,  but  I  cannot 
help  thinking  that  he  enjoys  life  a  great  deal 
more.  The  quick  feeling  of  life,  the  exuberance 
of  animal  spirits  which  break  out  in  the  traveller^ 
the  sportsman,  the  poet,  the  painter,  should  be 
more  generally  diffused.  We  should  be  all  the 
better  and  all  the  happier  for  it.  Life  ought  to 
be  freer,  heartier,  more  enjoyable  than  it  is  at 
present.  If  the  professional  fetter  must  be  worn, 
let  it  be  worn  as  lightly  as  possible.  It  should 
never  be  permitted  to  canker  the  limbs.  We  are 
a  free  people — we  have  an  unshackled  press — 
we  have  an  open  platform,  and  can  say  our  say 
upon  it,  no  king  or  despot  making  us  afraid. 
We    send    representatives    to    Parliament;    the 


28o  ON  VAGABONDS 

franchise  is  always  going  to  be  extended.  All 
this  is  very  fine,  and  we  do  well  to  glory  in  our 
privileges  as  Britons.  But  although  we  enjoy 
greater  political  freedom  than  any  other  people, 
we  are  the  victims  of  a  petty  social  tyranny.  We 
are  our  own  despots — we  tremble  at  a  neighbour's 
whisper.  A  man  may  say  what  he  likes  on  a 
public  platform — he  may  publish  whatever  opinion 
he  chooses — but  he  dare  not  wear  a  peculiar 
fashion  of  hat  on  the  street.  Eccentricity  is  an 
outlaw.  Public  opinion  blows  like  the  east 
wind,  blighting  bud  and  blossom  on  the  human 
bough. 

As  a  consequence  of  all  this,  society  is  losing 
picturesqueness  and  variety — we  are  all  growing 
up  after  one  pattern.  In  other  matters  than 
architecture  past  times  may  be  represented  by 
the  wonderful  ridge  of  the  Old  Town  of  Edinburgh, 
where  everything  is  individual  and  characteristic : 
the  present  time  by  the  streets  and  squares  of 
the  New  Town,  where  everything  is  grey,  cold, 
and  respectable ;  where  every  house  is  the  other's 
alter  ego.  It  is  true  that  life  is  healthier  in  the 
formal  square  than  in  the  piled-up  picturesque- 
ness of  the  Canongate — quite  true  that  sanitary 
conditions  are  better  observed — that  pure  water 
flows  through  every  tenement  like  blood  through 
a  human  body — that  daylight  has  free  access, 
and  that  the  apartments  are  larger  and  higher  in 
the  roof.  But  every  gain  is  purchased  at  the 
expense  of  some  loss ;  and  it  is  best  to  combine, 
if  possible,  the  excellences  of  the  old  and  the 
new.     By  all  means   retain   the   modern  breadth 


ON  VAGABONDS  281 

of  light  and  range  of  space — by  all  means  have 
water  plentiful  and  bed-chambers  ventilated — 
but  at  the  same  time  have  some  little  freak  of 
fancy  without — some  ornament  about  the  door, 
some  device  about  the  window — something  to 
break  the  cold,  grey,  stony  uniformity;  or,  to 
leave  metaphor,  which  is  always  dangerous  ground 
— for  I  really  don't  wish  to  advocate  Ruskinism 
and  the  Gothic — it  would  be  better  to  have, 
along  with  our  modern  enlightenment,  our  higher 
tastes,  and  purer  habits,  a  greater  individuality 
of  thought  and  manner;  better,  while  retaining 
all  that  we  have  gained,  that  harmless  eccentricity 
should  be  respected — that  every  man  should  be 
allowed  to  grow  in  his  own  way,  so  long  as  he 
does  not  infringe  on  the  rights  of  his  neighbour, 
or  insolently  thrust  himself  between  him  and  the 
sun. 

A  little  more  air  and  light  should  be  let  in 
upon  life.  I  should  think  the  world  has  stood 
long  enough  under  the  drill  of  Adjutant  Fashion. 
It  is  hard  work;  the  posture  is  wearisome,  and 
Fashion  is  an  awful  martinet,  and  has  a  quick 
eye,  and  comes  down  mercilessly  on  the  un- 
fortunate wight  who  cannot  square  his  toes  to 
the  approved  pattern,  or  who  appears  upon  parade 
with  a  darn  in  his  coat,  or  with  a  shoulder-belt 
insufficiently  pipe-clayed.  It  is  killing  work. 
Suppose  we  try  "  standing  at  ease "  for  a  little ! 


THE   END. 


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